



^RRSEXTKi:) BY 



THE 



Poetical Works 



OF 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 



REVISED EDITION 



FOUR VOLUMES IN TWO 



VOLS. I., II. 




BOSTON 
JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY 

Late Ticknor & Fields, and Fields, Osgood, & Co. 
1873 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1865, by 

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 



^W A-^^ u.^.^- '^^ 



"WLm^ 



University Press : Welch, Bigelow, & Co. 
Cambridge. 



CONTENTS 



VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 

Page 

Prelude o 

Hymn to the Night 15 

A Psalm of Life 16 

The Reaper and the Flowers .... 18 

The Light of Stars 19 

Footsteps of Angels 21 

Flowers 23 

The Beleaguered City 26 

Midnight Mass for the Dying Year ... 28 



EARLIER POEMS. 
iL Day .... 
Autumn 



An April Day ^^ 



35 

Woods in Winter ^5 

Hymn of the Moravian Nuns of Bethlehem 38 

Sunrise on the Hills 40 

The Spirit of Poetry . . . . ~ . .41 

Burial of the Minnisink 44 

TRANSLATIONS. 

COPLAS DE MaNRIQUE ^g 

The Good Shepherd yo 

To-mo'^row , yj 

"he Native Land 72 



iv Contents 

The Image of God 72 

The Brook 73 

The Celestial Pilot 74 

The Terrestrial Paradise 76 

Beatrice . . .77 

Spring 79 

The Child Asleep 80 

The Grave 81 

King Christian 83 

The Happiest Land 85 

The Wave 87 

The Dead 87 

The Bird and the Ship 88 

Whither? .... .... 90 

Beware! 91 

Song of the Bell 92 

The Castle by the Sea 93 

The Black Knight 95 

Song of the Silent Land 98 

L'Envoi 99 



BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 
BALLADS. 

The Skeleton in Armor 103 

The Wreck of the Hesperus .... 109 

The Luck of Edenhall 113 

The Elected Knight 116 

THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER . 121 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

The Village Blacksmith 147 

Endymion . . . . . . . . 149 



Contents v 

The Two Locks of Hair 151 

It is not always May 152 

The Rainy Day 153 

God's- Acre 154 

To the River Charles 155 

Blind Bartimeus 157 

The Goblet of Life 158 

Maidenhood 161 

Excelsior 163 

POEMS ON SLAVERY. 

To William E. Channing 169 

The Slave's Dream 170 

The Good Part 172 

The Slave in the Dismal Swamp . . .174 

The Slave singing at Midnight . . . 175 
The Witnesses . . . . . . .176 

The Quadroon Girl 178 

The Warning 180 

THE SPANISH STUDENT .... 185 

NOTES . . . 3" 



VOICES OF THE NIGHT 



1839 



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'A*ya^t6/xi'6f toj/ ini So/jlov • 

VTTO yap aXyebDU, xitto re (TViJi({)opa<; 

6ioi\6/Ae0', oixo/JieOa. 

Euripides. 



PRELUDE 



PLEASANT it was, when woods were green, 
And winds were soft and low, 
To lie amid some sylvan scene, 
Where, the long drooping boughs between, 
Shadows dark and sunlight sheen 
Alternate come and go ; 

Or where the denser grove receives 

No sunlight from above, 
But the dark foliage interweaves 
In one unbroken roof of leaves, 
Underneath whose sloping eaves 

The shadows hardly move. 

Beneath some patriarchal tree 

I lay upon the ground ; 
His hoary arms uplifted he, 
And all the broad leaves over me 
Clapped their little hands in glee, 

With one continuous sound : — 



Prehide 

A slumberous sound, a sound that brings 

The feelings of a dream, 
As of innumerable wings, 
As, when a bell no longer swings, 
Faint the hollow murmur rings 

O'er meadow, lake, and stream. 

And dreams of that which cannot die, 

Bright visions, came to me, 
As lapped in thought I used to lie, 
And gaze into the summer sky. 
Where the sailing clouds went by, 

Like ships upon the sea ; 

Dreams that the soul of youth engage 

Ere Fancy has been quelled ; 
Old legends of the monkish page, 
Trachtions of the saint and sage, 
Tales that have the rime of age, 
And chronicles of Eld. 



And, loving still these quaint old themes. 

Even in the city's throng 
I feel the freshness of the streams. 
That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams, 
Water the green land of dreams, 

The holy land of song. 



Pi'chide 1 1 

Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings 
The Spring, clothed Hke a bride, 

When nesthng buds unfold their wings, 

And bishop's-caps have golden rings, 

Musing upon many things, 
I sought the woodlands wide. 

The green trees whispered low and mild ; 

It was a sound of joy ! 
They were my playmates when a child, 
And rocked me in their arms so wild ! 
Still they looked at me and smiled, 

As if I were a boy ; 

And ever whispered, mild and low, 
" Come, be a child once more ! " 

And waved their long arms to and fro, 

And beckoned solemnly and slow ; 

O, I could not choose but go 
Into the woodlands hoar, — 

Into the blithe and breathing air, 

Into the solemn wood, 
Solemn and silent everywhere !~ 
Nature with folded hands seemed there, 
Kneeling at her evening prayer ! 

Like one in prayer I stood. 



1 2 Prelude 

Before me rose an avenue 

Of tall and sombroiis pines ; 
Abroad their fan-like branches grew, 
And, where the sunshine darted through, 
Spread a vapor soft and blue, 
In long and sloping lines. 

And, falling on my weary brain, 

Like a fast-falling shower. 
The dreams of youth came back again, 
Low lispings of the summer rain, 
Dropping on the ripened grain, 

As once upon the flower. 

Visions of childhood ! Stay, O stay ! 

Ye were so sweet and wild ! 
And distant voices seemed to say, 
" It cannot be ! They pass away ! 
Other themes demand thy lay ; 

Thou art no more a child ! 

" The land of Song within thee lies, 

Watered by living springs ; 
The lids of Fancy's sleepless eyes 
Are gates unto that Paradise, 
Holy thoughts, like stars, arise, 
Its clouds are angels' wings. 



Prelude 1 3 

" Learn, that henceforth thy song shall be, 
Not mountains capped with snow, 

Nor forests mounding like the sea. 

Nor rivers flowing ceaselessly. 

Where the woodlands bend to see 
The bending heavens below. 



" There is a forest where the din ' 

Of iron branches sounds ! 
A mighty river roars between. 
And whosoever looks therein 
Sees the heavens all black with sin. 

Sees not its depths, nor bounds. 

" Athwart the swinging branches cast, 

Soft rays of sunshine pour ; 
Then comes the fearful wintry blast ; 
Our hopes, like withered leaves, fall fast ; 
Pallid lips say, ' It is past ! 

We can return no more ! ' 

" Look, then, into thine heart, and write ! 

Yes, into Life's deep stream ! 
All forms of sorrow and delight. 
All solemn Voices of the Night, 
That can soothe thee, or affright, — 

Be these henceforth thy theme." 



VOICES OF THE NIGHT 



HYMN TO THE NIGHT 

'Acrnacrir}, Tpt'Mi<TTO?. 

I HEARD the trailing garments of the Night 
Sweep through her marble halls ! 
I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light 
From the celestial walls ! 

I felt her presence, by its spell of might, 

Stoop o'er me from above ; 
The calm, majestic presence of the Night, 

As of the one I love. 

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, 

The manifold, soft chimes. 
That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, 

Like some old poet's rhymes. 

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air 

My spirit drank repose ; 
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there, — 

From those deep cisterns flows. 



i^ Voices of the Night 

O holy Night ! from thee I learn to bear 

What man has borne before ! 
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, 

And they complain no more. 

Peace ! Peace ! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer ! 

Descend with broad-winged flight, 
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, 

The best-beloved Night ! 



A PSALM OF LIFE 

WHAT THE HEART OF I HE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE 
PSALMIST 

TELL me not, in mournful numbers. 
Life is but an empty dream ! 
For the soul is dead that slumbers, 
And things are not what they seem. 

Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 

And the grave is not its goal ; 
Dust thou art, to dust returnest, 

Waf not spoken of the soul. 



Not enjoyment, and not sorrow. 
Is our destined end or way ; 

But to act, that each to-morrow 
Find us farther than to-day. 



A Psalm of Life i? 

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, 

And our hearts, though stout and brave, 

Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
Funeral marches to the grave. 

In the world's broad field of battle, 

In the bivouac of Life, 
Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! 

Be a hero in the strife ! 

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant ! 

Let the dead Past bury its dead ! 
Act, — act in the living Present ! 

Heart within, and God o'erhead ! 

Lives of great men all remind us 

We can make our lives sublime, 
And, departing, leave behind us 

Footprints on the sands of time ; — ■ 

Footprints, that perhaps another. 

Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 

Seeing, shall take heart again. 

Let us, then, be up and doing, 

With a heart for any fate ; 
Still achieving, still pursuing, 

Learn to labor and to wait. 



Voices of the Night 



THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS 



THERE is a Reaper, whose name is Death, 
And, with his sickle keen, 
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, 
And the flowers that grow between. 



" Shall I have naught that is fair ? " saith he ; 

" Have naught but the bearded grain ? 
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, 

I will give them all back again." 

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, 

He kissed their drooping leaves ; 
It was for the Lord of Paradise 

He bound them in his sheaves. 

" My Lord has need of these flowerets gay," 

The Reaper said, and smiled ; 
" Dear tokens of the earth are they, 

Where he was once a child. 

"They shall, all bloom in fields of light, 

Transplanted by my care. 
And saints, upon their garments white, 

These sacred blossoms wear." 



The Light of Stars 19 

And the mother gave, in tears and pain, 

The flowers she most did love ; 
She knew she should find them all again 

In the fields of light above. 

O, not in cruelty, not in wrath, 

The Reaper came that day ; 
'Twas an angel visited the green earth, 

And took the flowers away. 



THE LIGHT OF STARS 

THE night is come, but not too soon ; 
And sinking silently, 
All silently, the little moon 
Drops down behind the sky. 

There is no light in earth or heaven 

But the cold light of stars ; 
And the first watch of night is given 

To the red planet Mars. 

Is it the tender star of love ? 

The star of love* and dreams ? 
O no ! from that blue tent above, 

A hero's armor gleams. 



20 Voices of tJie Night 

And earnest thoughts within me rise, 

When I behold afar, 
Suspended in the evening skies. 

The shield of that red star. 

star of strength ! I see thee stand 
And smile ujDon my pain ; 

Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand 
And I am strong again. 

Within my breast there is no light 
But the cold light of stars ; 

1 give the first watch of the night 

To the red planet Mars. 

The star of the unconquered will, 

He rises in my breast, 
Serene, and resolute, and still. 

And calm, and self-possessed. 

And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, 
That readest this brief psalm. 

As one by one thy hopes depart, 
Be resolute and calm. 

O fear not in a world like this. 
And thou shalt know' erelong. 

Know how sublime a thing it is 
To suffer and be strong. 



Footsteps of Angels 21 



FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS 

WHEN the hours of Day are numbered, 
And the voices of the Night 
AVake the better soul, that skimbered, 
To a holy, calm delight ; 

Ere the evening lamps are lighted, 
And, like phantoms grim and tall. 

Shadows from the fitful fire-light 
Dance upon the parlor wall ; 

Then the forms of the departed 

Enter at the open door ; 
The beloved, the true-hearted, 

Come to visit me once more ; 

He, the young and strong, who cherished 

Noble longings for the strife. 
By the road-side fell and perished, 

Weary with the march of life ! 

They, the holy ones and weakly. 

Who the cross of suffering bore, 
Folded their pale hands so meekly, 

Spake with us on earth no more ! 



22 Voias of the Night 

And with them the Being Beauteous, 
Who unto my youth was given, 

More than all things else to love me, 
And is now a saint in heaven. 

With a slow and noiseless footstep 
Comes that messenger divine, 

Takes the vacant chair beside me, 
Lays her gentle hand in mine. 

And she sits and gazes at me 

With those deep and tender eyes, ^ 

Like the stars, so still and saint-like, 
Looking downward from the skies. 

Uttered not, yet comprehended, 
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, 

Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, 
Breathing from her lips of air. 

O, though oft depressed, and lonely. 
All my fears are laid aside, 

If I but remember only 

Such as these have lived and died 1 



Flowers 



FLOWERS 

SPAKE full well, in language quaint and olden, 
One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, 
When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, 
Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine. 

Stars they are, wherein we read our history, 

As astrologers and seers of eld ; 
Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery. 

Like the burning stars, which they beheld. 

Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, 
God hath written in those stars above ; 

But not less in the bright flowerets under us 
Stands the revelation of his love. 

Bright and glorious is that revelation, 
Written all over this great world of ours ; 

Making evident our own creation. 

In these stars of earth, these golden flowers. 

And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing. 
Sees, alike m stars and flowers, a part 

Of the self-same, universal being. 

Which is throbbing: in his brain and heart. 



24 Voices of the Night 

Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, 
Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, 

Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining, 
Buds that open only to decay ; 

Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues. 
Flaunting gayly in the golden light , 

Large desires, with most uncertain issues, 
Tender wishes, blossoming at night ! 

These in flowers and men are more than seeming ; 

Workings are they of the self-same powers, ' 
Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming, 

Seeth in himself and in the flowers. 

E\'ery where about us are they glowing, 
Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born ; 

Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing, 
Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn ; 

Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing. 
And in Summer's green-emblazoned field, 

But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing, 
In the centre of his brazen shield ; 

Not alone in meadows and green alleys, 
On the mountain-top, and by the brink 

Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys, 
NVInerc the slaves of nature stoop to drink ; 



Floivcrs 25 

Not alone in her vast dome of glory, 
Not on graves of bird and beast alone, 

But in old cathedrals, high and hoary. 
On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone ; 

In the cottage of tlie rudest peasant, 

In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers. 

Speaking of the Past unto the Present, 
Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers ; 

In all places, then, and in all seasons, 

Flovvers expand their light and soul-like wings, 

Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, 
How akin they are to human things. 

And with childlike, credulous affection 
We behold their tender buds expand ; 

Emblems of our own great resurrection, 
Emblems of the bright and better land. 



VOL. IV. 



26 Voices of the Night 



THE BELEAGUERED CITY 

I HAVE read, in some old, marvellous tale, 
Some legend strange and vague, 
That a midnight host of spectres pale 
Beleaguered the walls of Prague. 

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, 

With the wan moon overhead, 
There stood, as in an awful dream, 

The army of the dead. 

White as a sea-fog, landward bound, 

The spectral camp was seen, 
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, 

The river flowed between. 

No other voice nor sound was there. 

No drum, nor sentry's pace ; 
The mist-like banners clasped the air, 

As clouds with clouds embrace. 

But when the old cathedral bell 

Proclaimed the morning prayer, 
The white pavilions rose and fell 

On the alarmed air. 



TJie Beleaguered City 27 

Down the broad valley fast and far 

The troubled army fled ; 
Up rose the glorious morning star, 

The ghastly host was dead. 

I have read, in the marvellous heart of man. 

That strange and mystic scroll, 
That an army of phantoms vast and wan 

Beleaguer the human soul. 

Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, 

In Fancy's misty light, 
Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam 

Portentous through the night. 

Upon its midnight battle-ground 

The spectral camp is seen. 
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound. 

Flows the River of Life between. 

No other voice nor sound is there. 

In the army of the grave ; 
No other challenge breaks the air. 

But the rushing of Life's wave. 

And when the solemn and deep church-bell 

Entreats the soul to pray, 
The midnight phantoms feel the spell, 

The shadows sweep away. 



28 P^oias of the Nig/it 

Down the broad Vale of Tears afar 
The spectral camp is fled ; 

Faith shineth as a morning star, 
Our ghastly fears are dead. 



MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE 
DYING YEAR 



YES, the Year is growing old, 
And his eye is pale and bleared 
Death, with frosty hand and cold, 
Plucks the old man by the beard, 
Sorely, sorely ! 

The leaves are falling, falling, 

Solemnly and slow ; 
Caw ! caw ! the rooks are calling. 

It is a sound of woe, 
A sound of woe ! 

Through woods and mountair passes 
The winds, like anthems, roll ; 

They are chanting solemn masses. 
Singing, " Pray for this poor soul, 
Pray, pray ! " 



Midnight Mass for the Dying Year 29 

And the hooded clouds, hke friars, 
Tell their beads in drops of ram, 

And patter their doleful prayers ; 
But their prayers are all in vain, 
All in vain ! 

There he stands in the foul weather, 

The foolish, fond Old Year, 
Crowned with wild-fiowers and with heather, 

Like weak, despised Lear, 
A king, a king ! 

Then comes the summer-like clay, 

Bids the old man rejoice ! 
His joy ! his last ! O, the old man gray 

Loveth that ever-soft voice, 
Gentle and low. 

To the crimson woods he saith. 

To the voice gentle and low 
Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath, 

" Pray do not mock me so ! 
Do not laugh at me ! " 

And now the sweet day is dead ; 

Cold in his arms it lies ; 
No stain from its breath is spread 

Over the glassy skies. 
No mist or stain ! 



30 P\)ia's of the Night 

Then, too, the Old Year dieth, 
And the forests utter a moan, 

Like the voice of one who crieth 
In the wilderness alone, 
" Vex not his ghost ! " 

Then comes, with an awful roar, 
Gathering and sounding on, 

The storm-wind from Labrador, 
The wind Euroclydon, 
The storm- wind ! 

Howl ! howl ! and from the forest 
Sweep the red leaves away ! 

Would, the sins that thou abhorrest, 
O Soul ! could thus decay, 
And be swept away ! 

For there shall come a mightier blast, 

There shall be a darker day ; 
And the stars, from heaven down-cast, 
Like red leaves be swept away ! 
Kyrie, eleyson ! 
Christe, eleyson ! 



EARLIER POEMS 



[These poems were written for the most jiart (hiring my col- 
lege life, and all of them before the age of nmeieen. 
Some have fomid their way into schools, and seem to be 
successful. Others lead a vagabond and precarious exist- 
ence in the corners of newspapers ; or have cliangcd their 
names and run away to seek their fortunes beyond the 
sea. I say, with the Bishop of Avranches on a similar 
occasion: "1 cannot be displeased to see these children 
of mine, which I have neglected, and almost exposed, 
brouglu from their wanderings in lanes and alleys, and 
safely lodged, in order to go forth into the world together 
in a more decorous garb. "J 



AN APRIL DAY 



WHEN the warm sun, that brings 
Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, 
'T is sweet to visit the still wood, where springs 
The first flower of the plain. 

I love the season well. 
When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, 
Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell 

The coming-on of storms. 

From the earth's loosened mould 
The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives ; 
Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold, 

The drooping tree revives. 

The softly-warbled song 
Comes from the pleasant woods, and colored wings 
Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along 

The forest openings. 
VOL. IV. • 2* c 



34 Earlier Poems 

When the bright sunset fills 
The silver woods with light, the green slope throws 
Its shadows in the hollows of the hills, 

And wide the upland glows. 

And when the eve is born, 
In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far, 
Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn, 

And twinkles many a star. 

• Inverted in the tide 
Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw, 
And the foir trees look over, side by side, 
And see themselves below. 

Sweet April ! many a thought 
Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed ; 
Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, 

Life's golden fruit is shed. 



Autumn 35 



AUTUMN 

WITH what a glory comes and goes the year ! 
The buds of spring, those beautiful harbin- 
gers 
Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy 
Life's newness, and earth's garniture spread out ; 
And when the silver habit of the clouds 
Comes down upon the autumn sun, and with 
A sober gladness the old year takes up 
His bright inheritance of golden fruits, 
A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene. 

There is a beautiful spirit breathing now 
Its mellow richness on the clustered trees. 
And, from a beaker full of richest dyes, 
Pouring new glory on the autumn woods, 
And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds. 
Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird. 
Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales 
The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, 
Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life 
Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned, 
And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved. 
Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down 
By the wayside a-weary. Through the trees 



36 Earlier Poems 

The golden robin moves. The purple finch, 
That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds, 
A winter bird, comes with its plainti\'e whistle, 
And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud 
From cottage roofs the warbling blue-bird sings, 
And merrily, v/ith oft-repeated stroke. 
Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail. 

O what a glor}^ dotli this world put on 
For him who, with a fer\-ent heart, goes forth 
Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks 
On duties well performed, and days well spent ! 
For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves, 
Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings. 
He shall so hear the solemn hymn that Death 
Has lifted up for all, that he shall go 
To his long resting-place without a tear. 



WOODS IN WINTER 

HEN winter winds are piercing chill. 
And through the hawthorn blows the gale, 
V/i:h solemn feet I tread the hill, 
That overbrows the lonely vale. 



w 



O'er the bare upland, and away 



Through the long reach of desert woods. 



Woods in Winter * 37 

The embracing sunbeams chastely play, 
And gladden these deep solitudes. 

Where^ twisted round the barren oak, 
The summer vine in beauty clung, 

And summer winds the stillness broke, 
The crystal icicle is hung. 

Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs 
Por.r out the river's gradual tide, 

Shrilly the skater's iron rings, 

And voices fill the woodland side. 

Alas ! how changed from the fair scene. 

When birds sang out their mellow lay, ♦ 

And winds were soft, and woods were rjreen, 
And the son^ ceased not with the day ! 

But still wild music is abroad, 

Pale, desert woods ! within your crov/d ; 
And gathering winds, in hoarse accord, 

Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. 

Chill airs and wintry winds ! my ear 
Has grown familiar with your song ; 

I hear it in the opening year, 
I listen, and it cheers me long. 



38 Earlier Poems 



HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS 
OF BETHLEHEM 

AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKl's BANNER 

WHEN the dying flame of day 
Through the chancel shot its ray, 
Far the ghmmering tapers shed 
Faint light on the cowled head ; 
And the censer burning swung, 
Where, before the altar, hung 
The crimson banner, that with prayer 
Had been consecrated there. 
And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while, 
Sung low, in the dim, mysterious aisle. 

" Take thy banner ! May it wave 
Proudly o'er the good and brave ; 
When the battle's distant wail 
Breaks the sabbath of our vale, 
When the clarion's music thrills 
To the hearts of these lone hills, 
When the spear in conflict shakes, 
And the strong lance shivering breaks. 

" Take thy banner ! and, beneatli 
The battle-cloud's encircling wreath, 



Hymn of the Moldavian Ntiiis 39 

Guard it, till our homes are free ! 
Guard it ! God will prosper thee ! 
In the dark and trying hour, 
In the breaking forth of power, 
In the rush of steeds and men, 
His right-hand will shield thee then. 

" Take thy banner ! But when night 
Closes round the ghastly fight, 
If the vanquished warrior bow, 
Spare him ! By our holy vow, 
By our prayers and many tears, 
By the mercy that endears. 
Spare him ! he our love hath shared ! 
Spare him ! as thou wouldst be spared ! 

" Take thy banner ! and if e'er 
Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier. 
And the muffled drum should beat 
To the tread of mournful feet. 
Then this crimson flag shall be 
Martial cloak and shroud for thee." 

The warrior took that banner proud, 
And it was his martial cloak and shroud ! 



40 Earlier Poems 



SUNRISE ON THE HILLS 

1 STOOD upon the hills, when heaven's wide 
arch 
Was glorious with the sun's returning march, 
And woods were brightened, and soft gales 
Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales. 
The clouds were far beneath me ; bathed in light, 
They gathered mid-way round the wooded height, 
And, in their fading glory, shone 
Like hosts in battle overthrown. 
As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance. 
Through the gray mist thrust up its shattered lance, 
And rocking on the cliff was left 
The dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft. 
The veil of cloud was lifted, and below 
Glowed the rich valley, and the river's flow 
Was darkened by the forest's shade. 
Or glistened in the white cascade ; 
Where upward, in the mellow blush of day. 
The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way. 

I heard the distant waters dash, 
I saw the current whirl and flash. 
And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach. 
The woods were bendinof with a silent reach. 



TJie Spirit of Poetry 41 

Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell, 
The music of the village bell 
Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills ; 
And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills, 
Was ringing to the merry shout. 
That faint and far the glen sent out. 
Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin smoke, 
Through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle 
broke. 



If thou art worn and hard beset 
With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget, 
If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep 
Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep, 
Go to the woods and hills ! No tears 
Dim the sweet look that Nature wears. 



THE SPIRIT OF POETRY 

THERE is a quiet spirit in these v/oods, 
That dwells where'er the gentle south wind 
blows ; 
Vvhere, underneath the white-thorn, in tha glade. 
The wild flowers blocm, or, kissing the soft air, 
I'he leaves above their sunny palms outspread. 
With what a tender and impassioned voice 



42 Earlier Poems 

It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought, 
When the fast ushering star of morning comes 
O'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf; 
Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve, 
In mourning weeds, from out the western gate. 
Departs with silent pace ! That spirit moves 
In the green valley, where the silver brook. 
From its full laver, pours the white cascade ; 
And, babbling low amid the tangled woods. 
Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless 

laughter. 
And frequent, on the everlasting hills. 
Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself 
In all the dark embroidery of the storm, 
And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid 
The silent majesty of these deep woods. 
Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth, 
As to the sunshine and the pure, b ight air 
Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards 
Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades. 
For them there was an eloquent voice in all 
The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun, 
The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way, 
Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds. 
The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun 
Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes, 
droves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in. 
Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale. 
The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees. 



TJie Spirit of Poetiy ' 42, 

In many a lazy syllable, repeating 
Their old poetic legends to the wind. 

And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill 
The world ; and, in these wayward days of youth, 
My busy fancy oft embodies it. 
As a bright image of the light and beauty 
That dwell in nature ; of the heavenly forms 
We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues 
That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds 
When the sun sets. Within her tender eye 
The heaven of April, with its changing light, 
And when it wears the blue of May, is hung, 
And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair 
Is like the summer tresses of the trees. 
When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek 
Blushes the richness of an autumn sky. 
With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath, 
It is so like the gentle air of Spring, 
As, from the morning's dewy flowers, it comes 
Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy 
To have it round us, and her silver voice 
Is the rich music of a summer bird. 
Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence. 



44 Earlier Poems 



BURIAL OF THE MINNISINK 

ON sunny slope and beechen swell, 
The shadovv-ed light of evening fell ; 
And, where the maple's leaf was brown, 
With soft and silent lapse came down. 
The glor}^, that the wood receives. 
At sunset, in its golden leaves. 

Far upward in the mellow light 
Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white, 
. Around a far uplifted cone. 
In the warm blush of evening shone ; 
An image of the silver lakes, 
By which the Indian's soul awakes. 

But soon a funeral hymn was heard 
Where the soft breath of evening stirred 
The tall, gray forest ; and a band 
Of stern in heart, and strong in hand. 
Came winding down beside the wave. 
To lay the red chief in his grave. 

They sang, that by his native bowers 
He stood, in the last moon of flowers, 



Burial of the Miimisink 45 

And thirty snows had not yet shed 
Their glory on the warrior's head ; 
But, as the summer fruit decays, 
So died he in those naked days. 

A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin 
Covered the warrior, and within 
Its hea\7 folds the weapons, made 
For the hard toils of war, were laid ; 
The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds. 
And the broad belt of shells and beads. 

Before, a dark-haired virgin train 
Chanted the death dirge of the slain ; 
Behind, the long procession came 
Of hoary men and chiefs of fame, 
With heavy hearts, and eyes of grief. 
Leading the war-horse of their chief 

Stripped of his proud and martial dress, 
Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless, 
With darting eye, and nostril spread. 
And heavy and impatient tread. 
He came ; and oft that eye so proud 
Asked for his rider in the crowd. 

They buried the dark chief; they freed 
Beside the grave his battle steed ; 



46 Earlier Poems 

And swift an arrow cleaved its way 
To his stern heart ! One piercing neigh 
Arose, and, on the dead man's plain, 
The rider grasps his steed again. 



TRANSLATIONS 



[Don Jorge Manrique, the author of the following poem, 
flourished in the last half of the fifteenth century. He 
followed the profession of arms, and died on tlie field of 
battle. Mariana, in his History of Spain, makes hon- 
orable mention of him, as being present at the siege of 
Ucles ; and speaks of him as " a youth of estimable quali- 
ties, who in this war gave brilliant proofs of his valor. 
He died young ; and was thus cut off from long exercising 
his great virtues, and exhibiting to the world the light of 
his genius, which was already known to fame. " He was 
mortally wounded in a skirmish near Canavete, in the year 
1479. 

The name of Rodrigo Manrique, the father of the poet, 
Conde de Paredes and Maestre de Santiago, is well known 
in Spanish history and song. He died in 1476 ; accord- 
ing to Mariana, in the town of Ucles ; but, according to 
the poem of his son, in Ocaiia. It was his death that called 
forth the poem upon which rests the literary reputation of 
the younger Manrique. In the language of his historian, 
" Don Jorge Manrique, in an elegant Ode, full of poetic 
beauties, rich embellishments of genius, and high moral 
reflections, mourned the death of his father as with a 
funeral hymn." This praise is not exaggerated. The 
poem is a model in its kind. Its concej^tion is solemn 
and beautiful :, and, in accordance with it, the style moves 
on, — calm, dignified, and majestic] 



COPLAS DE MANRIQUE 



FROM THE SPANISH 



OLET the soul her slumbers break, 
Let thought be quickened, and awake ; 
Awake to see 

How soon this life is past and gone, 
And death comes softly stealing on, 
How silently ! 

Swiftly our pleasures glide away. 
Our hearts recall the distant day 
"With many sighs ; 

The moments that are speeding fast 
We heed not, but the past, — the past. 
More highly prize. 

Onward its course the present keeps, 
Onward the constant current sweeps, 
Till life is done ; 

And, did we judge of time aright, 
The past and future in their flight 
Would be as one. 

VOL. IV. T, D 



50 Translations 

Let no one fondly dream again, 
That Hope and all her shadowy train 
Will not decay ; 

Fleeting as were the dreams of old, 
Remembered like a tale that 's told, 
They pass away. 

Our lives are rivers, gliding free 
To that unfathomed, boundless sea, 
The silent grave ! 

Thither all earthly pomp and boast 
Roll, to be swallowed up and lost 
In one dark wave. 

Thither the mighty torrents stray. 
Thither the brook pursues its way, 
And tinkling rill. 
There all are equal ; side by side 
The poor man and the son of pride 
Lie calm and still. 



I will not here invoke the throng 

Of orators and sons of song, 

The deathless few ; 

Fiction entices and deceives, 

And, sprinkled o'er her fragrant leaves. 

Lies poisonous dew. 



Coplas de Manrique 51 

To One alone my thoughts arise, 

The Eternal Truth, the Good and Wise, 

To Him I cry, 

Who shared on earth our common lot. 

But the world comprehended not ^ 

His deity. 

This world is but the rugged road 
Which leads us to the bright abode 
Of peace above ; 

So let us choose that narrow way, 
Which leads no traveller's foot astray 
From realms of love. 

Our cradle is the starting-place, 
Life is the running of the race, 
We reach the goal 
When, in the mansions of the blest, • 
Death leaves to its eternal rest 
The weary soul. 

Did we but use it as we ought. 

This world would school each wanderins: thouo-ht 

To its high state. 

Faith wings the soul beyond the sky, 

Up to that better world on high, 

For which we wait. 



5 2 Translations 

Yes, the glad messenger of love, 
To guide us to our home above. 
The Saviour came ; 
Born amid mortal cares and fears, 
He suffered in this vale of tears 
A death of shame. 



Behold of what delusive worth 
The bubbles we pursue on earth. 
The shapes we chase, 
Amid a world of treachery ! 
They vanish ere death shuts the eye. 
And leave no trace. 

Time steals them from us, chances strange, 

Disastrous accident, and change. 

That come to all ; 

Even in the most exalted state. 

Relentless sweeps the stroke of fate ; 

The strongest fall. 

Tell me, the charms that lovers seek 
In the clear eye and blushing cheek. 
The hues that play 
O'er rosy lip and brow of snow. 
When hoary age approaches slow, 
Ah, where are they ? 



Cop las de Mamdqiie 53 

The cunning skill, the curious arts, 
The glorious strength that youth imparts 
In life's first stage ; 
These shall become a heavy weight. 
When Time swings wide his outward gate 
To weary age. 

The noble blood of Gothic name, 
Heroes emblazoned high to fame, 
In long array ; 

How, in the onward course of time, 
The landmarks of that race sublime 
Were swept away ! 

Some, the degraded slaves of lust, 
Prostrate and trampled in the dust, 
Shall rise no more ; 
Others, by guilt and crime, maintain 
The scutcheon, that, without a stain,, 
Their fathers bore. 

Wealth and the high estate of pride. 
With what untimely speed they glide, 
How soon depart ! 
Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay. 
The vassals of a mistress they. 
Of fickle heart. 



54 Translations 

These gifts in Fortune's hands are found ; 
Her swift revolving wheel turns round, 
And they are gone ! 
No rest the inconstant goddess knows, 
But changing, and without repose. 
Still hurries on. 



Even could the hand of avarice save 
Its gilded baubles, till the grave 
Reclaimed its prey, 
Let none on such poor hopes rely ; 
Life, like an empty dream, flits by. 
And where are they ? 

Earthly desires and sensual lust 
Are passions springing from the dust. 
They fade and die ; 
But, in the life beyond the tomb, 
They seal the immortal spirit's doom 
Eternally ! 

The pleasures and delights, which mask 
In treacherous smiles life's serious task. 
What are the}^, all, 
But the fleet coursers of the chase, 
And death an ambush in the race. 
Wherein we fall ? 



Cop las de Manrique 55 

No foe, no dangerous pass, we heed, 
Brook no delay, but onward speed 
With loosened rein ; 
And, when the fatal snare is near, 
We strive to check our mad career, 
But strive in vain. 



Could we new charms to age impart, 
And fashion with a cunning art 
The human face. 

As we can clothe the soul with light, 
And make the glorious spirit bright 
With heavenly grace. 

How busily each passing hour 
Should we exert that magic power. 
What ardor show. 
To deck the sensual slave of sin, 
Yet leave the freeborn soul within, 
In weeds of woe ! 

Monarchs, the powerful and the strong. 

Famous in history and in song 

Of olden time. 

Saw, by the stern decrees of fate. 

Their kingdoms lost, and desolate 

Their race sublime. 



56 Translations 

Who is the champion ? who the strong ? 

Pontiff and priest, and sceptred throng ? 

On these shall fall 

As heavily the hand of Death, 

As when it stays the shepherd's breath 

Beside his stall. 

I speak not of the Trojan name. 

Neither its glory nor its shame 

Has" met our eyes ; 

Nor of Rome's great and glorious dead. 

Though we have heard so oft, and read, 

Their histories. 

Little avails it now to know 
Of ages passed so long ago. 
Nor how they rolled ; 
Our theme shall be of yesterday, 
Which to oblivion sweeps away, 
Like days of old. 

Where is the King, Don Juan .^ Where 
Each royal prince and noble heir 
Of Aragon ? 

Where are the courtly gallantries ? 
The deeds of love and high emprise, 
In battle done ? 



Coplas de Maiiriqtte 57 

Tourney and joust, that charmed the eye, 
And scarf, and gorgeous panoply, 
And nodding pkime, 
What were they but a pageant scene ? 
What but the garlands, gay and green, 
That deck the tomb ? 



Where are the high-born dames, and where 
Their gay attire, and jewelled hair, 
And odors sweet ? 

Where are the gentle knights, that came 
To kneel, and breathe love's ardent flame, 
Low at their feet ? 

Where is the song of Troubadour ? 

Where are the lute and gay tambour 

They loved of yore ? 

Where is the mazy dance of old, 

The flowing robes, inwrought with gold. 

The dancers wore ? 

And he who next the sceptre swayed^. 
Henry, whose royal court displayed 
Such power and pride j 
O, in what winning smiles arrayed, 
The world its various pleasures laid 
His throne beside ! 
3* 



5 8 Translations 

But O how false and full of guile 
That world, which wore so soft a smile 
But to betray ! 

She, that had been his friend before, 
Now from the fated monarch tore 
Her charms away. 

The countless gifts, the stately walls, 

The royal palaces, and halls 

All filled with gold ; 

Plate with armorial bearings wrought. 

Chambers with ample treasures fraught 

Of wealth untold ; 

The noble steeds, and harness bright, 
And gallant lord, and stalwart knight. 
In rich array. 

Where shall we seek them now ? Alas ! 
Like the bright dewdrops on the grass, 
They passed away. 

His brother, too, whose factious zeal 
Usurped the sceptre of Castile, 
Unskilled to reign ; 
What a gay, brilliant court had he. 
When all the flower of chivalry 
Was in his train ! 



Coplas de Manriqtie 59 

But he was mortal ; and the breath, 

That flamed from the hot forge of Death, 

Blasted his years ; 

Judgment of God ! that flame by thee, 

When raging fierce and fearfully, 

Was quenched in tears ! 



Spain's haughty Constable, the true 
And gallant Master, whom we knew 
Most loved of all ; 
Breathe not a whisper of his pride, 
He on the gloomy scaffold died, 
Ignoble fall ! 

The countless treasures of his care, 

His villages and villas fair. 

His mighty power, 

What were they all but grief and shame. 

Tears and a broken heart, when came 

The parting hour ? 

His other brothers, proud and high. 
Masters, who, in prosperity, 
Might rival kings ; 
Who made the bravest and the best 
The bondsmen of their high behest, 
Their underlings ; 



6o Translations 

What was their prosperous estate, 
When high exalted and elate 
With power and pride ? 
What, but a transient gleam of light, 
A flame, which, glaring at its height, 
Grew dim and died ? 

So many a duke of royal name. 
Marquis and count of spotless fame, 
And baron brave. 

That might the sword of empire wield, 
All these, O Death, hast thou concealed 
In the dark grave ! 

Their deeds of mercy and of arms, 
In peaceful days, or war's alarms, 
When thou dost show, 
O Death, thy stern and angry face, 
One stroke of thy all-powerful mace 
Can overthrow. 

Unnumbered hosts, that threaten nigh, 
Pennon and standard flaunting high. 
And flag displayed ; 
High battlements intrenched around. 
Bastion, and moated wall, and mound. 
And palisade. 



Coplas de Manriqite 6 1 

And covered trench, secure and deep, 

All these cannot one victim keep, 

O Death, from thee. 

When thou dost battle in thy wrath,, 

And thy strong shafts pursue their path 

Unerringly. 

O World ! so few the years we live, 

Would that the life which thou dost give 

Were life indeed ! 

Alas ! thy sorrows fall so fast. 

Our happiest hour is when at last 

The soul is freed. 



Our days are covered o'er with grief, 

And sorrows neither few nor brief 

Veil all in gloom ; 

Left desolate of real good, 

Within this cheerless solitude 

No pleasures bloom. 

Thy pilgrimage begins in tears, 
And ends in bitter doubts and fears, 
Or dark despair ; 
Midway so many toils appear. 
That he who lingers longest here 
Knows most of care. 



62 Trajislations 

Thy goods are bought with many a groan, 

By the hot sweat of toil alone, 

And weary hearts ; 

Fleet-footed is the approach of woe. 

But with a lingering step and slow 

Its form departs. 

And he, the good man's shield. and shade. 

To whom all hearts their homage paid. 

As Virtue's son, 

Roderic Manrique, he whose name 

Is written on the scroll of Fame, 

Spain's champion ; 

His signal deeds and prowess high 

Demand no pompous eulogy, 

Ye saw his deeds ! 

Why should their praise in verse be sung? 

The name, that dwells on every tongue, 

No minstrel needs. 



To friends a friend ; how kind to all 
The vassals of this ancient hall 
And feudal fief ! 

To foes how stern a foe was he ! 
And to the valiant and the free 
How brave a chief! 



Coplas de Manrique 63 

What prudence with the old and wise : 

What grace in youthful gayeties ; 

In all how sage ! 

Benignant to the serf and slave, 

He showed the base and falsely brave 

A lion's rage. 

His was Octavian's prosperous star, 

The rush of Caesar's conquering car 

At batde's call ; 

His, Scipio's virtue ; his, the skill 

And the indomitable will 

Of Hannibal. 

His was a Trajan's goodness, his 

A Titus' noble charities 

And righteous laws ; 

The arm of Hector, and the might 

Of Tully, to maintain the right 

In truth's just cause ; 

The clemency of Antonine, 
Aurelius' countenance divine. 
Firm, gentle, still ; 
The eloquence of Adrian, 
And Theodosius' love to man, 
And generous will ; 



64 Translations 

In tented field and bloody fray, 
An Alexander's vigorous sway 
And stern command ; 
The faith of Constantine ; ay, more, 
The fervent love Camillus bore 
His native land. 



He left no well-filled treasury, 

He heaped no pile of riches high. 

Nor massive plate ; 

Hj fought the Moors, and, in their fall, 

City and tower and castled wall 

Were his estate. 

Upon the hard-fought batde-ground. 
Brave steeds and gallant riders found 
A common grave ; 

And there the warrior's hand did gain 
The rents, and the long vassal train, 
That conquest gave. 

And if, of old, his halls displayed 
The honored and exalted grade 
His worth had gained. 
So, in the dark, disastrous hour. 
Brothers and bondsmen of his power 
His hand sustained. 



Coplas de Manriqite 65 

After high deeds, not left untold, 

In the stern warfare, which of old 

'Twas his to share. 

Such noble leagues he made, that more 

And fairer regions, than before, 

His guerdon were. 

These are the records, half effaced, 

Which, with the hand of youth, he traced 

On history's page ; 

But with fresh victories he drew 

Each fading character anew 

In his old age. 

By his unrivalled skill, by great 
And veteran service to the state. 
By worth adored. 
He stood, in his high dignity. 
The proudest knight of chivalry, 
Knight of the Sword. 

He found his cities and domains 
Beneath a tyrant's galling chains 
And cruel power ; 
But, by fierce battle and blockade, 
Soon his own banner was displayed 
From every tower. 

VOL. IV. E 



66 Translations 

By the tried valor of his hand, 

His monarch and his native land 

Were nobly serv^ed ; 

Let Portugal repeat the story, 

And proud Castile, who shared the glory 

His arms deserved. 

And when so oft, for weal or woe, 

His life upon the fatal throw 

Had been cast down ; 

When he had served, with patriot zeal, 

Beneath the banner af Castile, 

His sovereign's crown ; 

And done such deeds of valor strong. 
That neither history nor song 
Can count them all ; 
Then, on Ocana's castled rock. 
Death at his portal came to knock, 
With sudden call, 

Saying, " Good Cavalier, prepare 
To leave this world of toil and care 
With joyful mien ; 

Let thy strong heart of steel this day 
Put on its armor for the fray, 
The closing scene. 



Capias de Mamnqite 6/ 

" Since thou hast been, in battle-strife, 

So prodigal of health and life, 

For earthly fame. 

Let virtue nerve thy heart again ; 

Loud on the last stern battle-plain 

They call thy name. 

" Think not the struggle that draws near 

Too terrible for man, nor fear 

To meet the foe ; 

Nor let thy noble spirit grieve, 

Its life of glorious fame to leave 

On earth below. 



" A life of honor and of worth 

Has no eternity on earth, 

'T is bi|>t a name ; 

And yet its glory far exceeds 

That base and sensual life, which leads 

To want and shame. 

" The eternal life, beyond the sky, 
Wealth cannot purchase, nor the high 
And proud estate ; 
The soul in dalliance laid, the spirit 
Corrupt with sin, shall not inherit 
A joy so great. 



6S Ti^anslations 

" But the good monk, in cloistered cell, 

Shall gain it by his book and bell, 

His prayers and tears ; 

And the brave knight, whose arm endures 

Fierce battle, and against the Moors 

His standard rears. 

" And thou, brave knight, whose hand has poured 

The life-blood of the Pagan horde 

O'er all the land. 

In heaven shalt thou receive, at length, 

The guerdon of thine earthly strength 

And dauntless hand. 

" Cheered onward by this promise sure, 
Strong in the faith entire and pure 
Thou dost profess, * 

Depart, thy hope is certainty, 
The third, the better life on high 
Shalt thou possess." 

" O Death, no more, no more delay ; 

My spirit longs to flee away. 

And be at rest ; 

The will of Heaven my will shall be, 

I bow to the divine decree. 

To God's behest. 



Coplas de Maiirique 6g 

"My soul is ready to depart, 

No thought rebels, the obedient heart 

Breathes forth no sigh ; 

The wish on earth to linger still 

Were vain, when 't is God's sovereign will 

That we shall die. 



" O thou, that for our sins didst take 
A human form, and humbly make 
Thy home on earth ; 
Thou, that to thy divinity 
A human nature didst ally 
By mortal birth, 

" And in that form didst suffer here 
Torment, and agony, and fear, 
So patiently ; 

By thy redeeming grace alone, 
And not for merits of my own, 
O, pardon me ! " 

As thus the dying warrior prayed, 
Without one gathering mist or shade 
Upon his mind ; 
Encircled by his family, 
Watched by affection's gentle eye 
So soft and kind ; 



/o Translations 

His soul to Him, who gave it, rose ; 

God lead it to its long repose, 

Its glorious rest ! 

And, though the warrior's sun has set, 

Its light shall linger round us yet, 

Bright, radiant, blest. 



THE GOOD SHEPHERD 

FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA 

SHEPHERD ! who with thine amorous, sylVan 
song 
Hast broken the slumber that encompassed me, 
Who mad'st.thy crook from the accursed tree. 
On which thy powerful arms were stretched so 
long ! 
Lead me to mercy's ever-flowing fountains ; 

For thou my shepherd, guard, and guide shalt be ; 
I will obey thy voice, and wait to see 
Thy feet all beautiful upon the mountains. 
Hear, Shepherd ! thou who for thy flock art dying, 
O, wash away these scarlet sins, for thou 
Rejoicest at the contrite sinner's vow. 



To-Morrow 7 1 

O, wait ! to thee my weary soul is crying, 
Wait for me ! Yet why ask it, when I see, 
With feet nailed to the cross, thou 'rt waiting still 
for me ! 



TO-MORROW 

FROxM THE SPANISH OF LOPE DE VEGA 

LORD, what am I, that, with unceasing care, 
Thou didst seek after me, that thou didst wait, 
Wet with unhealthy dews, before my gate, 
And pass the gloomy nights of winter there ? 

O strange delusion ! that I did not greet 

Thy blest approach, and O, to Heaven how lost. 

If my ingratitude's unkindly frost 

Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon thy feet. 

How oft my guardian angel gently cried, 

" Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt see 
How he persists to knock and wait for thee 1 " 

And, O ! how often to that voice of sorrow, 
" To-morrow we will open," I replied. 
And when the morrow came I answered still, 
" To-morrow." 



72 Translations 



THE NATIVE LAND 

FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE ALDANA 

CLEAR fount of light ! my native land on high, 
Bright with a glory that shall never fade ! 
Mansion of truth ! without a veil or shade, 
Thy holy quiet meets the spirit's eye. 

There dwells the soul in its ethereal essence, 
Gasping no longer for life's feeble breath ; 
But, sentinelled in heaven, its glorious presence 
With pitying eye beholds, yet fears not, death. 

Beloved country ! banished from thy shore, 
A stranger in this prison-house of clay. 
The exiled spirit weeps and sighs for thee ! 

Heavenward the bright perfections I adore 
Direct, and the sure promise cheers the way, 
That, whither love aspires, there shall my dwell- 
ing be. 



THE IMAGE OF GOD 

FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE ALDANA 

OLORD ! who seest, from yon starry height. 
Centred in one the future and the past, 
Fashioned in thine own image, see how fast 
The world obscures in me what once was bright ! 



The Brook 73 

Eternal Sun ! the warmth which thou hast given, 
To cheer life's flowery April, fast decays ; 
Yet, in the hoary winter of my days, 
Forever green shall be my trust in Heaven. 

Celestial King ! O let thy presence pass 
Before my spirit, and an image fair 
Shall meet that look of mercy from on high. 

As the reflected image in a glass 

Doth meet the look of him who seeks it there, 
And owes its being to the gazer's eye. 



THE BROOK 

FROM THE SPANISH 

LAUGH of the mountain ! — lyre of bird and 
tree ! 
Pomp of the meadow ! mirror of the morn ! 
The soul of April, unto whom are born 
The rose and jessamine, leaps wild in thee ! 
Although, where'er thy devious current strays. 
The lap of earth with gold and silver teems, 
To me thy clear proceeding brighter seems 
Than golden sands, that charm each shepherd's 
gaze. 
How without guile thy bosom, all transparent 
As the pure crj^stal, lets the curious eye 

VOL. IV. 4 



74 Translations 

Thy secrets scan, thy smooth, round pebbles 
count ! 
How, without mahce murmuring, ghdes thy current ! 

O sweet simplicity of days gone by ! 

Thou shun'st the haunts of man, to dwell in lim- 
pid fount ! 



THE CELESTIAL PILOT 

FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, II. 

AND now, behold ! as at the approach of morn- 
ing, 
Through the gross vapors. Mars grows fiery red 
Down in the west upon the ocean floor, 

Appeared to me, — may I again behold it 1 
A light along the sea, so swiftly coming, 
Its motion by no flight of wing is equalled. 

And when therefrom I had withdrawn a little 
Mine eyes, that I might question my conductor. 
Again I saw it brighter grown and larger. 

Thereafter, on all sides of it, appeared 

I knew not what of white, and underneath, 
Little by little, there came forth another. 

My master yet had uttered not a word. 

While the first whiteness into wings unfolded ; 
But, when he clearly recognized the pilot. 



The Celestial Pilot 75 

He cried aloud : " Quick, quick, and bow the knee ! 
Behold the Angel of God ! fold up thy hands ! 
Henceforward shalt thou see such officers ! 

See, how he scorns all human arguments, 
So that no oar he wants, nor other sail 
Than his own wings, between so distant shores ! 

See, how he holds them, pointed straight to heaven, 
Planning the air with the eternal pinions, 
That do not moult themselves like mortal hair!" 

And then, as nearer and more near us came 

The Bird of Heaven, more glorious he appeared, 
So that the eye could not sustain his presence, 

But down I cast it ; and he came to shore 
With a small vessel, gliding swift and light, 
So that the water swallowed naught thereof. 

Upon the stern stood the Celestial Pilot ! 
Beatitude seemed written in his face ! 
. And more than a hundred spirits sat within. 

" Ifi exitu Israel de yEgypto I " 

Thus sang they all together in one voice. 
With whatso in that Psalm is after written. 

Then made he sign of holy rood upon them. 
Whereat all cast themselves upon the shore, 
And he departed swiftly as he came. 



']6 Translations 



THE TERRESTRIAL PARADISE 

FROM DANTE. PURGATORTO, XXVIII. 

LONGING already to search in and round 
The heavenly forest, dense and living-green, 
Which tempered to the eyes the new-born day, 

Withouten more delay I left the bank, 
Crossing the level country slowly, slowly. 
Over the soil, that everywhere breathed fragrance. 

A gently-breathing air, that no mutation 
Had in itself, smote me upon the forehead, 
No heavier blow, than of a pleasant breeze, 

Whereat the tremulous branches readily 

Did all of them bow downward towards that side 
Where its first shadow casts the Holy Mountain ; 

Yet not from their upright direction bent 
So that the little birds upon their tops 
Should cease the practice of their tuneful art ; 

But, with full-throated joy, the hours of prime . 
Singing received they in the midst of foliage 
That made monotonous burden to their rhymes. 

Even as from branch to branch it gathering swells, 
Through the pine forests on the shore of Chiassi, 
When ^olus unlooses the Sirocco. 

Already my slow steps had led me on 



Beatrice TJ 

Into the ancient wood so far, that I 

Could see no more the place where I had entered. 
And lo ! my further course cut off a river, 

Which, tow'rds the left hand, with its little waves, 

Bent down the grass, that on its margin sprang. 
All waters that on earth most limpid are. 

Would seem to have within themselves some 
mixture. 

Compared with that, which nothing doth conceal, 
Although it moves on with a brown, brown current, 

Under the shade perpetual, that never 

Ray of the sun lets in, nor of the moon. 



BEATRICE 

FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, XXX., XXXI. 

EVEN as the Blessed, at the final summons. 
Shall rise up quickened, each one from his 
grave. 
Wearing again the garments of the flesh. 
So, upon that celestial chariot, 

A hundred rose ad vocem tanti senis, 
Ministers and messengers of life eternal. 
They all were saying, " BencdicUis qui venis^' 
And scattering flowers above and round about, 
" Manihus o date lilia plenisr 
Oft have I seen, at the approach of day, 



yS Ti-anslations 

The orient sky all stained with roseate hues, 
And the other heaven with light serene adorned, 

And the sun's face uprising, overshadowed. 
So that, by temperate influence of vapors. 
The eye sustained his aspect for long while ; 

Thus in the bosom of a cloud of flowers. 

Which from those hands angelic were thrown up, 
And down descended inside and without. 

With crown of olive o'er a snow-white veil. 
Appeared a lady, under a green mantle, 
Vested in colors of the living flame. 

Even as the snow, among the living rafters 
Upon the back of Italy, congeals. 
Blown on and beaten by Sclavonian winds. 

And then, dissolving, filters through itself, 

AVhene'er the land, that loses shadow, breathes, 
Like as a taper melts before a fire. 

Even such I was, without a sigh or tear. 
Before the song of those who chime forever 
After the chiming of the eternal spheres ; 

But, when I heard in those sweet melodies 
Compassion for me, more than had they said, 
" O wherefore, lady, dost thou thus consume 
him ? " 

The ice, that was about my heart congealed. 
To air and water changed, and, in my anguish, 
Through lips and eyes came gushing from my 
breast. 



spring 79 

Confusion and dismay, together mingled, 

Forced such a feeble " Yes ! " out of my mouth. 
To understand it one had need of sight. 

Even as a cross-bow breaks, when 't is discharged, 
1 oo tensely drawn the bow-string and the bow, 
And with less force the arrow hits the mark ; 

So I gave way beneath this heavy burden, 
Gushing forth into bitter tears and sighs. 
And the voice, fainting, flagged upon its passage. 



SPRING 

FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES d'oRLEANS 
XV. CENTURY 

GENTLE Spring ! in sunshine clad, 
Well dost thou thy power display ! 
For Winter maketh the light heart sad. 

And thou, thou makest the sad heart gay. 
He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train, 
The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the rain ; 
And they shrink away, and they flee in fear. 
When thy merry step draws near. 

Winter giveth the fields and the trees, so old. 

Their beards of icicles and snow ; 
And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold, 

We must cower over the embers low ; 



8o Translations 

And, snugly housed from the wind and weather. 
Mope Hke birds that are changing feather. 
But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear. 
When thy merry step draws near. 

Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky 

Wrap him round with a mantle of cloud ; 
But, Heaven be praised, thy step is nigh ; 
Thou tearest away the mournful shroud, 
And the earth looks bright, and Winter surly. 
Who has toiled for naught both late and early. 
Is banished afar by the new-born year, 
When thy meriy step draws near. 



THE CHILD ASLEEP 

FROM THE FRENCH 

SWEET babe ! true portrait of thy fother's face, 
Sleep on the bosom that thy lips have pressed ! 
Sleep, little one ; and closely, gently place 
Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother's breast. 

Upon that tender eye, my little friend, 

Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to me ! 

I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend ; 
'T is sweet to watch for thee, alone for thee ! 



The Grave 8i 

His arms fall clown ; sleep sits upon his brow ; 

His eye is closed ; he sleeps, nor dreams of harm. 
Wore not his cheek the -apple's ruddy glow, 

Would you not say he slept on Death's cold arm ? 

Awake, my boy ! I tremble with affright ! 

Awake, and chase this fatal thought ! Unclose 
Thine eye but for one moment on the light-! 

Even at the price of thine, give me repose ! 

Sweet error ! he but slept, I breathe again ; 

Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep beguile ! 
O, when shall he, for whom I sigh in vain, 

Beside me watch to see thy waking smile ? 



THE GRAVE 



F 



FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON 

'OR thee was a house built 
Ere thou wast born. 
For thee was a mould meant 
Ere thou of mother camest. 
But it is not made ready. 
Nor its depth measured, 
Nor is it seen 
- How long it shall be. 
Now I bring thee 

VOL. IV. 4* F 



82 Trans latiojis 

Where thou shalt be ; 
Now I shall measure thee, 
And the mould afterwards. 

Thy house is not 
Highly timbered, 
It is unhigh and low ; 
When thou art therein, 
The heel-ways are low. 
The side-ways unhigh. 
The roof is built 
Thy breast full nigh. 
So thou shalt in mould 
Dwell full cold, 
Dimly and dark. 

Doorless is that house. 
And dark it is within ; 
There thou art fast detained 
And Death hath the key. 
Loathsome is that earth-housCj 
And grim within to dwell. 
There thou shalt dwell, 
And worms shall divide thee. 

Thus thou art laid, 
And leavest thy friends ; 
Thou hast no friend. 
Who will come to thee, 



King CJiristian 83 

Who will ever see 

How that house pleaseth thee ; 

Who will, ever open 

The door for thee, 

And descend after thee ; 

For soon thou art loathsome 

And hateful to see. 



KING CHRISTIAN 

A NATIONAL SONG OF DENMARK 

FROM THE DANISH OF JOHANNES EVALD 

KING CHRISTIAN stood by the lofty mast 
In mist and smoke ; 
His sword was hammering so fast, 
Through Gothic helm and brain it passed ; 
Then sank each hostile hulk and mast, 

In mist and smoke. 
" Fly ! " shouted they, " fly, he who can ! 
Who braves of Denmark's Christian 
The stroke 1 " 

Nils Juel gave heed to the tempest's roar. 

Now is the hour ! 
He hoisted his blood-red flag once more. 



84 Translations 

And smote upon the foe full sore, 

And shouted loud, through the tempest's roar, 

" Now is the hour ! " 
" Fly ! " shouted they, " for shelter fly ! 
Of Denmark's Juel who can defy 

The power ? " 

North Sea ! a glimpse of Wessel rent 

Thy murky sky ! 
Then champions to thine arms were sent ; 
Terror and Death glared where he went ; 
From the waves was heard a wail, that rent 

Thy murky sky ! 
From Denmark, thunders Tordenskiol', 
Let each to Heaven commend his soul, 

And fly ! 

Path of the Dane to fame and might ! 

Dark-rolling wave ! 
Receive thy friend, who, scorning flight, 
Goes to meet danger with despite. 
Proudly as thou the tempest's might, 

Dark-rolling wave ! 
And amid pleasures and alarms, 
And war and victory, be thine arms 

My grave ! 



The Happiest LaiHd 85 



. THE HAPPIEST LAND 

FROM THE GERMAN 

THERE sat one clay in quiet, 
By an alehouse on the Rhine, 
Four hale and hearty fellows. 
And drank the precious wine. 

The landlord's daughter filled their cups. 

Around the rustic board ; 
Then sat they all so calm and still. 

And spake not one rude word. 

But, when the maid departed, 

A Swabian raised his hand. 
And cried, all hot and flushed with wine, 

" Long live the Swabian land ! 

" The greatest kingdom upon earth 

Cannot with that compare ; 
With all the stout and hardy men 

And the nut-brown maidens there." 

" Ha ! " cried a Saxon, laughing. 
And dashed his beard with wine ; 

" I had rather live in Lapland, 
Than that Swabian land of thine ! 



86 Translations 

" The goodliest land on all this earth, 

It is the Saxon land ! 
There have I as many maidens 

As fingers on this hand ! " 

" Hold your tongues ! both Swabian and Saxon ! " 

A bold Bohemian cries ; 
" If there 's a heaven upon this earth, 

In Bohemia it lies. 

" There the tailor blows the flute, 

And the cobbler blows the horn, 
And the miner blows the bugle. 

Over mountain gorge and bourn." 



And then the landlord's daughter 
Up to heaven raised her hand, 

And said, " Ye may no more contend, 
There lies the happiest land ! " 



The Dead 8/ 



THE WAVE 

FROM THE GERMAN OF TIEDGE 

" TT THITHER, thou turbid wave? 
V V Whither, with so much haste, 
As if a thief wert thou ? " 

" I am the Wave of Life, 
Stained with my margin's dust ; 
From the struggle and the strife 
Of the narrow stream I fly 
To the Sea's immensity, 
To wash from me the shme 
Of the muddy banks of Time." 



THE DEAD 

FROM THE GERMAN OF STOCKMANN 

HOW they so softly rest. 
All they the holy ones. 
Unto whose dwelling-place 
Now doth my soul draw near ! 
How they so softly rest, 
All in their silent graves, 
Deep to corruption 
Slowly down-sinking 1 



Translations 

And they no longer weep, 
Here, where complaint is still ! 
And they no longer feel, 
Here, where all gladness flies J 
And, by the cypresses 
Softly o'ershadowed, 
Until the Angel 
Calls them, they slumber ! 



THE BIRD AND THE SHIP 

FROM THE GERMAN OF MULLER 

" ^ I ^HE rivers rush into the sea, 
X By castle and town they go ; 

The winds behind them merrily 
Their noisy trumpets blow. 

" The clouds are passing far and high. 

We litde birds in them play ; 
And everything, that can sing and fly, 

Goes with us, and far away. 

" I greet thee, bonny boat ! Whither, or whence. 
With thy fluttering "golden band ? " — 

" I greet thee, little bird ! To the wide sea 
I haste from the narrow land. 



The Bird and the Ship < 

" Full and swollen is every sail ; 

I see no longer a hill, 
I have trusted all to the sounding gale, 

And it will not let me stand still. 

' And wilt thou, little bird, go wdth us ? 

Thou mayest stand on the mainmast tall, 
For full to sinking is my house 

With merry companions all." — 

" I need not and seek not company, 
Bonny boat, I can sing all alone ; 

For the mainmast tall too heavy am I, 
Bonny boat, I have wings of my own. 

" High over the sails, high over the mast, 

Who shall gainsay these joys ? 
When thy merry companions are still, at last, 

Thou shalt hear the sound of my voice. 

" Who neither may rest, nor listen may, 

God bless them every one ! 
I dart away, in the bright blue day. 

And the golden fields of the sun. 

"Thus do I sing my weary song. 

Wherever the four winds blow ; 
And this same song, my whole life long, 

Neither Poet nor Printer may know." 



90 Tj^iJLslations 

WHITHER? 

FROM THE GERMAN OV MULLER 

I HEARD a brooklet gushing 
From its rocky fountain near, 
Down into the valley rushing, 
So fresh and wondrous clear. 

I know not what came o'er me, 
Nor who the counsel gave ; 

But I must hasten downward, 
All with my jDilgrim-stave ; 

Downward, and ever farther, 
And ever the brook beside ; 

And ever fresher murmured, 
And ever clearer, the tide. 

Is this the way I was going 1 

Whither, O brooklet, say ! 
Thou hast, with thy soft murmur. 

Murmured my senses away. 

What do I say of a murmur } 

That can no murmur be ; 
'T is the water-nymphs, that are singing 

Their roundelays under me. 



Bezvare ! g i 

Let them sing, my friend, let them murmur, 

And wander merrily near ; 
The wheels of a mill are going 

In every brooklet clear. 



BEWARE! 

FROM THE GERMAN • 

I KNOW a maiden fair to see, 
Take care ! 
She can both false and friendly be, 
Beware ! Beware ! 
Trust her not, 
She is fooling thee ! 

She has two eyes, so soft and brown, 

Take care ! 
She gives a side-glance and looks down, 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not, 
She is fooling thee ! 

And she has hair of a golden hue, 

Take care ! 
And what she says, it is not true. 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not, 
She is fooling thee ! 



92 Translations 

She has a bosom as white as snow, 

Take care ! 
She knows how much it is best to show, 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not, 
She is fooling thee ! 

She gives thee a garland woven fair. 

Take care ! 
It is a fool's-cap for thee to wear. 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not. 
She is fooling thee ! 



SONG OF THE BELL 

FROM THE GERMAN 

BELL ! thou soundest merrily. 
When the bridal party 
To the church doth hie ! 
Bell ! thou soundest solemnly. 
When, on Sabbath morning, 
Fields deserted lie ! 

Bell ! thou soundest merrily ; 
Tellest thou at evening, 
Bed-time draweth nigh ! 



TJic Castle by the Sea 93 

Bell ! thou soundest mournfully, 
Tellest thou the bitter 
Parting hath gone by ! 

Say ! how canst thou mourn ? 
How canst thou rejoice ? 

Thou art but metal dull ! 
And yet all our sorrowings, 
And all our rejoicings, 

Thou dost feel them all ! 

God hath wonders many, 
Which we cannot fathom, 

Placed within thy form ! 
When the heart is sinking, 
Thou alone canst raise it, 

Trembling in the storm ! 



THE CASTLE BY THE SEA 

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND 

HAST thou seen that lordly castle, 
That Castle by the Sea ? 
Golden and red above it 
The clouds float gorgeously. 



94 Translations 

" And fain it would stoop downward 
To the mirrored wave below ; 

And fain it would soar upward 
In tlie evening's crimson glow." 

"Well have I seen that castle, 

That Castle by the Sea, 
And the moon above it standinof. 

And the mist rise solenmly." 

"The winds and the waves of ocean. 

Had they a merry chime? 
Didst thou hear, from those lofty chambers, 

The harp and the minstrel's rhyme ? " 

" The winds and the waves of ocean. 

They rested quietly. 
But I heard on the gale a sound of wail, 

And tears came to mine eye." 

" And sawest thou on the turrets 
The King and his royal bride ? 

And the wave of their crimson mantles ? 
And the golden crown of pride ? 

" Led they not forth, in rapture, 

A beauteous maiden there .'* 
Resplendent as the morning sun, 

Beaming with golden hair ? " 



The I Hack' Kiui:;ht 95 

" Well saw 1 the iincicnl parents, 

Without the crown of pride ; 
They were nioxiuL; slow, in weeds of woe, 

No maiden was by their side 1 " 



THE BLACK KNIGHT 

FROM THE GERMAN OF I HLAND 

TWAS Pentecost, the Feast of Gladness, 
\Vhen woods and fields put off all sadness. 
Thus began the King and spake : 
" So from the halls 
Of ancient Hot burg's walls, 

A luxuriant Spring shall break." 

Drums and trumpets echo loudly, 
Wave the crimson banners proudly, 

Froni balcony the King looked on ; 
In the play of spears, 
Fell all the cavaliers, 

Before the monarch's stalwart son. 

To the barrier of the fight 
Rode at last a sable Knight. 

" Sir Kniiilu ! vour name and scutcheon, sav ! " 



96 Translations 

" Should I speak it here, 
Ye would stand aghast with fear ; . 
I am a Prince of mighty sway ! " 

When he rode into the lists, 

The arch of heaven grew black with mists, 

And the castle 'gan to rock ; 
At the first blow. 
Fell the youth from saddle-bow, 

Hardly rises from the shock ; 

Pipe and viol call the dances, 

Torch-light through the high halls glances ; 

Waves a mighty shadow in ; 
With manner bland 
Doth ask the maiden's hand, 

Doth with her the dance begin ; 

Danced in sable iron sark. 
Danced a measure weird and dark, 

Coldly clasped her limbs around ; 
From breast and hair 
Down fall from her the fair 

Flowerets, faded, to the ground. 

To the sumptuous banquet came 
Every Knight and every Dame ; 

'Twixt son and daughter all distraught, 



The Black KnigJit 97 

With mournful mind 

The ancient King reclined, 

Gazed at them in silent thought. 

Pale the children Hoth did look, 
But the guest a beaker took : 

" Golden wine will make you whole ! " 
The children drank, 
Gave many a courteous thank : 

" O, that draught was very cool ! " 

Each the father's breast embraces, 
Son and daughter ; and their faces 

Colorless grow utterly ; 
Whichever way 
Looks the fear-struck father gray. 

He beholds his children die. 

" Woe ! the blessed children both 
Takest thou in the joy of youth ; 

Take me, too, the joyless father ! " 
Spake the grim Guest, 
From his hollow, cavernous breast : 

" Roses in the spring I gather ! " 

VOL. IV. c G 



98 Translations 



SONG OF THE SILENT LAND 

FROM THE GERMAN OF SALIS 

INTO the Silent Land ! 
Ah ! who shall lead us thither ? 
Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather, 
And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand. 
Who leads us with a gentle hand 
Thither, O thither, 
Into the Silent Land ? 

Into the Silent Land ! 

To you, ye boundless regions 

Of all perfection ! Tender morning-visions 

Of beauteous souls ! The Future's pledge and 

band ! 
Who in Life's battle firm doth stand. 
Shall bear Hope's tender blossoms 
Into the Silent Land ! 

O Land ! O Land ! 

For all the broken-hearted 

The mildest herald by our fate allotted. 

Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand 

To lead us with a gentle hand 

To the land of the great Departed, 

Into the Silent Land ! 



U Envoi 99 



L'ENVOI 

\^E voices, that arose 
After the Evening's close, 
And whispered to my restless heart repose ! 

Go, breathe it in the ear 

Of all who doubt and fear, 

And say to them, " Be of good cheer ! " 

Ye somids, so low and calm, 

That in the groves of balm 

Seemed to me like an angel's psalm ! 

Go, mingle yet once more 

With the perpetual roar 

Of the pine forest, dark and hoar ! 

Tongues of the dead, not lost. 
But speaking from death's frost. 
Like fiery tongues at Pentecost ! 

Glimmer, as funeral lamps. 
Amid the chills and damps 
Of the vast plain where Death encamps ! 



BALLADS 



AND OTHER POEMS 



84 



THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR 

" Q PEAK ! speak ! thou fearful guest ! 

^--/ Who, with thy hollow breast 
Still in rude armor drest, 

Comest to daunt me ! 
Wrapt not in Eastern balms, 
But with thy fleshless palms 
Stretched, as if asking alms, 

Why dost thou haunt me ? " 

Then, from those cavernous eyes 
Pale flashes seemed to rise. 
As when the Northern skies 

Gleam in December ; 
And, like the water's flow 
Under December's snow, 
Came a dull voice of woe 

From the heart's chamber. 

" I was a Viking old ! 
My deeds, though manifold. 
No Skald in song has told, 
No Saga taught thee ! 



[04 Ballads and other Poems 

Take heed, that in thy verse 
Thou dost the tale rehearse, 
Else dread a dead man's curse ; 
For this I sought thee. 

" Far in the Northern Land, 
By the wild Baltic's strand, 
I, with my childish hand, 

Tamed the gerfalcon ; 
And, with my skates fast-bound. 
Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, 
That the poor whimpering hound 

Trembled to walk on. , 

" Oft to his frozen lair 
Tracked I the grisly bear, 
While from my path the hare 

Fled like a shadow ; 
Oft through the forest dark 
Followed the were-wolf 's bark, 
Until the soaring lark 

Sang from the meadow. 



" But when I older grew, 
Joining a corsair's crew, 
O'er the dark sea I flew 

With the marauders. 
Wild was the life we led ; 
Many the souls that sped. 



The Skeleton in Armor 105 

Many the hearts that bled, 
By our stern orders. 

" Many a wassail-bout 
Wore the long Winter out ; 
Often our midnight shout 

Set the cocks crowing, 
As we the Berserk's tale 
Measured in cups of ale. 
Draining the oaken pail. 

Filled to o'erflowing. 

" Once as I told in glee 
Tales of the stormy sea, 
Soft eyes did gaze on me, 

Burning yet tender ; 
And as the white stars shine 
On the dark Norway pine, 
On that dark heart of mine 

Fell their soft splendor. 

" I wooed the blue-eyed maid. 
Yielding, yet half afraid, 
And in the forest's shade 

Our vows were plighted. 
Under its loosened vest 
Fluttered her little breast. 
Like birds within their nest 

By the hawk frighted. 
5* 



io6 Ballads and other Poems 

" Bright in her father's hall 
Shields gleamed upon the wall, 
Loud sang the minstrels all, 

Chanting his glory ; 
When of old Hildebrand 
I asked his daughter's hand, 
Mute did the minstrels stand 

To hear my story. 

" While the brown ale he quaffed, 
Loud then the champion laughed, 
And as the wind-gusts waft 

The sea-foam brightly, 
So the loud laugh of scorn, 
Out of those lips unshorn, 
From the deep drinking-horn 

Blew the foam lightly. 

" She was a Prince's child, 

I but a Viking wild, 

And though she blushed and smiled, 

I was discarded ! 
Should not the dove so white 
Follow the sea-mew's flight, 
Why did they leave that night 
^ Her nest unguard :d ? 

" Scarce had I put to sea, 
Bearing the maid with me. 



The Skeleton in Armor 107 

Fairest of all was she 

Among the Norsemen ! 
When on the white sea-strand, 
Waving his armed hand, 
Saw we old Hildebrand, 

With twenty horsemen. 

" Then launched they to the blast, 
Bent like a reed each mast, 
Yet we were gaining fast, 

When the wind failed us j 
And with a sudden flaw 
Came round the gusty Skaw, 
So that our foe we saw 

Laugh as he hailed us. 

" And as to catch the gale 
Round veered the flapping sail. 
Death ! was the helmsman's hail. 

Death without quarter ! 
Mid-ships with iron keel 
Struck we her ribs of steel ; 
Down her black hulk did reel 

Through the black water ! 

" As with his wings aslant, 
Sails the fierce cormorant. 
Seeking some rocky haunt. 
With his prey laden, 



io8 Ballads and other Poems 

So toward the open main, 
Beating to sea again, 
Through the wild hurricane, 
Bore I the maiden. 



" Three weeks we westward bore, 
And when the storm was o'er, 
Cloud-Hke we saw the shore 

Stretching to lee-ward ; 
There for my lady's bower 
Built I the lofty tower. 
Which, to this very hour, 

Stands looking sea-ward. 

" There lived we many years ; 
Time dried the maiden's tears ; 
She had forgot her fears. 

She was a mother ; 
Death closed her mild blue eyes, 
Under that tower she lies ; 
Ne'er shall the sun arise 

On such another ! 



" Still grew my bosom then, 
Still as a stagnant fen ! 
Hateful to nie were men, 
The sun-light hateful ! 



The Wreck of tJie Hesperus 109 

In the vast forest here, 
Clad in my warHke gear, 
Fell I upon my spear, 
O, death was grateful ! 

" Thus, seamed with many scars 
Bursting these prison bars, 
Up to its native stars 

My soul ascended ! 
There from the flowing bowl 
Deep drinks the warrior's soul. 
Skoal! to the Northland! skoal!'' 

Thus the tale ended. 



THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS 

IT was the schooner Hesperus, 
That sailed the wintry sea ; 
And the skipper had taken his little daughter, 
To bear him company. 

Blue were her eyes as the fliiry-flax. 
Her cheeks like the dawn of day, 

And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, 
That ope in the month of May. 



no Ballads and otJicr Poems 

The skipper he stood beside the hehii, 

His pipe was in his mouth, 
And he watched how the veering flaw did blow 

The smoke now West, now South. 

Then up and spake an old Sailor, 

Had sailed to the Spanish Main, 

" I pray thee, put into yonder port. 
For I fear a hurricane. 

" Last night, the moon had a golden ring. 
And to-night no moon we see ! " 

The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, 
And a scornful laugh laughed he. 

Colder and louder blew the wind, 

A gale from the Northeast, 
The snow fell hissing in the brine, 

And the billows frothed like yeast. 

Down came the storm, and smote amain. 

The vessel in its strength ; 
She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed. 

Then leaped her cable's length. 

" Come hither ! come hither ! my little daughter, 

And do not tremble so ; 
I^ov T can weather the roughest gale. 

That ever wind did blow." 



The Wreck of iJic Hesperus 

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat 

Against the stinging blast ; 
He cut a rope from a broken spar, 

And bound her to the mast. 



" O father ! I hear the church-bells ring, 

O say, what may it be ? " 
" 'T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast ! " — 

And he steered for the open sea. 

" O father ! I hear the sound of guns, 

O say, what may it be ? " 
" Some ship in distress, that cannot live 

In such an angry sea ! " 

" O father ! I see a gleaming light, 

O say, what may it be ? " 
But the father answered never a word, 

xA frozen corpse was he. 

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark. 
With his face turned to the skies, 

The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow 
On his fixed and glassy eyes. 

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed 

That saved she might be ; 
And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave. 

On the Lake of Galilee. 



112 Ballads and otJier Poems 

And fast through the midnight dark and drear, 
Through the whistUng sleet and snow, 

Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept 
Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe. 

And ever the fitful gusts between 

A sound came from the land ; 
It was the sound of the trampling surf, 

On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. 

The breakers were right beneath her bows. 

She drifted a dreary wreck, 
And a whooping billow swept the crew 

Like icicles from her deck. 

She struck where the white and fleecy waves 

Looked soft as carded wool, 
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side 

Like the horns of an angry bull. 

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice. 
With the masts went by the board ; 

Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, 
Ho ! ho ! the breakers roared ! 

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, 

A fisherman stood aghast. 
To see the form of a maiden fair, 

Lashed close to a drifting mast. 



The Litck of EdcnJuill 113 

The salt sea was frozen on her breast, 

The salt tears in her eyes ; 
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, 

On the billows fall and rise. 

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 

In the midnight and the snow ! 
Christ save us all from a death like this, 

On the reef of Norman's Woe ! 



THE LUCK OF EDENHALL 

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAN D 

OF Edenhall, the youthful Lord 
Bids sound the festal trumpet's call ; 
He rises at the banquet board. 
And cries, 'mid the drunken revellers all, 
" Now bring me the Luck of Edenhall ! " 

The butler hears the words with pain. 
The house's oldest seneschal. 
Takes slow from its silken cloth again 
The drinking glass of crystal tall ; 
They call it The Luck of Edenhall. 



114 Ballads and other Poems 

Then said the Lord : " This glass to praise, 

Fill with red wine from Portugal ! " 

The graybeard with trembling hand obeys ; 

A purple light shines over all, 

It beams from the Luck of Edenhall. 

Then speaks the Lord, and waves it light : 
" This glass of flashing crystal tall 
Gave to my sires the Fountain-Sprite ; 
She wrote in it, If this glass dothfall^ 
Farewell tJien^ O Liiek of Edenhall ! 

" 'T was right a goblet the Fate should be 
Of the joyous race of Edenhall ! 
Deep draughts drink we right willingly ; 
And willingly ring, with merry call, 
Kling ! klang ! to the Luck of Edenhall ! " 

First rings it deep, and full, and mild, 
Like to the song of a nightingale ; 
Then like the roar of a torrent wild ; 
Then mutters at last like the thunder's fall. 
The glorious Luck of Edenhall. 

" For its keeper takes a race of might, 

The fragile goblet of crystal tall ; 

It has lasted longer than is right ; 

Kling ! klang ! — with a harder blow than all 

Will I try the Luck of Edenhall ! " 



TJie LtLck of Edenhall 115 

As the goblet ringing flies apart, 
Suddenly cracks the vauhed hall ; 
And through the rift, the wild flames start; 
The guests in dust are scattered all. 
With the breaking Luck of Edenhall ! 

In storms the foe, with fire and sword ; 
He in the night had scaled the wall. 
Slain by the sword lies the youthful Lord, 
But holds in his hand the crystal tall, 
The shattered Luck of Edenhall. 

On the morrow the butler gropes alone, 
The graybeard in the desert hall. 
He seeks his Lord's burnt skeleton, 
He seeks in the dismal ruin's fall 
The shards of the Luck of Edenhall. 

" The stone wall," saith he, " doth fall aside, 
Down must the stately columns fall ; 
Glass is this earth's Luck and Pride ; 
In atoms shall fall this earthly ball 
One day like the Luck of Edenhall ! " 



Ii6 Ballads and other Poems 



THE ELECTED KNIGHT 

FROM THE DANISH 

SIR OLUF he rideth over the plain, 
Full seven miles broad and seven miles wide, 
But never, ah never can meet with the man 
A tilt with him dare ride. 

He saw under the hillside 

A Knight full well equipped ; 
His steed was black, his helm was barred ; 

He was riding at full speed. 

He wore upon his spurs 

Twelve little golden birds ; 
Anon he spurred his steed with a clang, 

And there sat all the birds and sang. 

He wore upon his mail 

Twelve little golden wheels ; 
Anon in eddies the wild wind blew, 

And round and round the wheels they flew. 

He wore before his breast 

A lance that was poised in rest ; 
And it was sharper than diamond-stone, 

It made Sir Oluf s heart to groan. 



TJie Elected Knight 1 1 7 

He wore upon his helm 

A wreath of ruddy gold ; 
And that gave him the Maidens Three, 

The youngest was fair to behold. 

Sir Oluf questioned the Knight eftsoon 
If he were come from heaven down ; 

" Art thou Christ of Heaven," quoth he, 
" So will I yield me unto thee." 

" I am not Christ the Great, 

Thou shalt not yield thee yet ; 
I am an Unknown Knight, 

Three modest Maidens have me bedight." 

" Art thou a Knight elected, 

And have three Maidens thee bedight ; 
So shalt thou ride a tilt this day, 

For all the Maidens' honor ! " 

The first tilt they together rode 

They put their steeds to the test ; 
The second tilt they together rode. 

They proved their manhood best. 

The third tilt they together rode, 

Neither of them would yield ; 
The fourth tilt they together rode. 

They both fell on the field. 



1 1 8 Ballads and other Poems 

Now lie the lords upon the plain, 
And their blood runs unto death ; 

Now sit the Maidens in the high tower, 
The youngest sorrows till death. 



THE CHILDREN 



THE LORD'S SUPPER 



FROM THE SWEDISH OF BISHOP TEGNER 



THE 

CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER 

PENTECOST, day of rejoicing, had come. The 
church of the village 
Gleaming stood in the morning's sheen. On the 

spire of the belfiy, 
Deck'ed with a brazen cock, the friendly flames of 

the Spring-sun 
Glanced like the tongues of fire, beheld by Apos- 
tles aforetime. 
Clear was the heaven and blue, and May, with her 

cap crowned with roses, 
Stood in her holiday dress in the fields, and the 

wind and the brooklet 
Murmured gladness and peace, God's-peace ! with 

lips rosy-tinted 
Whispered the race of the flow^ers, and merry on 

balancing branches 
Birds were singing their carol, a jubilant hymn to 

the Highest. 
Swept and clean was the churchyard. Adorned 

like a leaf-woven arbor 

VOL. IV. 6 



122 Ballads and otJicr Pocuis 

Stood its old-fashioned gate ; and within upon 

each cross of iron 
Hung was a fragrant garland, new twined by the 

hands of aftection. 
Even the dial, that stood on a mound among the 

departed, 
(There full a hundred years had it stood,) was em- 
bellished with blossoms. 
Like to the patriarch hoary, the sage of his kith 

and the hamlet. 
Who on his birthday is crowned by children and 

children's children, 
So stood the ancient prophet, and mute with his 

pencil of iron 
Marked on the tablet of stone, and measured the 

time and its changes. 
While all around at his feet, an eternity slumbered 

in quiet. 
Also the church within was adorned, for this was 

the season 
When the young, their parents' hope, and the loved- 

ones of heaven, 
Should at the foot of the altar renew the vows of 

their baptism. 
Therefore each nook and corner was swept and 

cleaned, and the dust was 
Blown from the walls and ceiling, and from the 

oil-painted benches. 
There stood the church like a garden ; the Feast 

of the Leafy Pavilions 



TJie Children of the Lord's Supper 123 

Saw we in living presentment. From noble arms 

on the church wall 
Grew forth a cluster of leaves, and the preacher's 

pulpit of oak-wood 
Budded once more anew, as aforetime the rod 

before Aaron. 
Wreathed thereon was the Bible with leaves, and 

the dove, washed with silver. 
Under its canopy fastened, had on it a necklace of 

wind-flowers. 
But in front of the choir, round the altar-piece 

painted by Horberg, 
Crept a garland gigantic ; and bright-curling tress- 
es of angels 
Peeped, like the sun from a cloud, from out of the 

shadowy leaf-work. 
Likewise the lustre of brass, new-polished, blinked 

from the ceiling. 
And for lights there were lilies of Pentecost set in 

the sockets. 

Loud rang the bells already ; the thronging crowd 

was assembled 
Far from valleys and hills, to list to the holy 

preaching. 
Hark ! then roll forth at once the mighty tones 

of the organ. 
Hover like voices from God, aloft like invisible 

spirits. 



124 Ballads and other Pocvis 

Like as Elias in heaven, when he cast from off him 
his mantle, 

So cast off the soul its garments of earth ; and with 
one voice 

Chimed in the congregation, and sang an anthem 
immortal 

Of the sublime Wallin, of David's harp in the 
North-land 

Tuned to the choral of Luther ; the song on its 
mighty pinions 

Took every living soul, and lifted it gently to 
heaven, 

And each face did shine like the Holy One's face 
upon Tabor. 

Lo ! there entered then into the church the Rev- 
erend Teacher. 

Father he hight and he was in the parish ; a Chris- 
tianly plainness 

Clothed from his head to his feet the old man of 
seventy winters. 

Friendly was he to behold, and glad as the herald- 
ing angel 

Walked he among the crowds, but still a contem- 
plative grandeur 

Lay on his forehead as clear, as on moss-covered 
gravestone a sunbeam. 

As in his inspiration (an evening twilight that 
faintly 

Gleams in the human soul, even now, from the day 
of creation) 



TJie Children of the Lord's Supper 125 

Th' Artist, the friend of heaven, imagines Saint 

John when in Patmos, 
Gray, with his eyes uphfted to heaven, so seemed 

then the old man ; 
Such was the glance of his eye, and such were his 

tresses of silver. 
All the congregation arose in the pews that were 

numbered. 
But with a cordial look, to the right and the left 

hand, the old man 
Nodding all hail and peace, disappeared in the 

innermost chancel. 

Simply and solemnly now proceeded the Chris- 
tian service, 

Singing and prayer, and at last an ardent dis- 
course from the old man. 

Many a moving word and warning, that out of the 
heart came 

Fell like the dew of the morning, like manna on 
those in the desert. 

Then, when all was finished, the Teacher re-entered 
the chancel, 

Followed therein by the young. The boys on the 
right had their places, * 

Delicate figures, with close-curling hair and cheeks 
rosy-blooming. 

But on the left of these, there stood the tremulous 
lilies, * , 



126 Ballads and otJicr Poems 

Tinged with the blushing Ught of the dawn, the 
diffident maidens, — 

Folding their hands in prayer, and their eyes cast 
down on the pavement. 

Now came, with question and answer, the cate- 
chism. In the beginning 

Answered the children with troubled and faltering 
voice, but the old man's 

Glances of kindness encouraged them soon, and 
the doctrines eternal 

Flowed, like the waters of fountiiins, so clear from 
lips unpolluted. 

Each time the answer was closed, and as oft as they 
named the Redeemer, 

Lowly louted the boys, and lowly the maidens all 
courtesied. 

Friendly the Teacher stood, like an angel of light 
there among them. 

And to the children explained the holy, the high- 
est, in few words, 

Thorough, yet simple and clear, for sublimity al- 
ways is simple, 

Both in sermon and song, a child can seize on its 
meaning. 

E'en as the green-growing bud unfolds when Spring- 
tide approaches 

Leaf by leaf puts forth, and, warmed by the radiant 
sunshine. 

Blushes with purple and gold, till at last the per- 
fected blossom 



The Children of the Lonfs Supper 127 

Opens its odorous chalice, and rocks witli its crown 
in the breezes, 

So was unfolded here the Christian lore of salva- 
tion, 

Line by line from the soul of childhood. The 
fathers and mothers 

Stood behind them in tears, and were glad at the 
well-worded answer. 

Now went the old man up to the altar \ — and 

straightway transfigured 
(So did it seem unto me) was then the affectionate 

Teacher. 
Like the Lord's Prophet sublime, and awful as 

Death and as Judgment 
Stood he, the God-commissioned, the soul-searcher, 

earthward descending. 
Glances, sharp as a sword, into hearts, that to him 

were transparent 
Shot he ; his voice was deep, was low like the 

thunder afar off. 
So on a sudden transfigured he stood there, he 

spake and he questioned. 

" This is the faith of the Fathers, the faith the 
Apostles delivered. 

This is moreover the faith whereunto I baptized 
you, while still ye 

Lay on your mothers' bieasts, and nearer the por- 
tals of heaven. 



128 Ballads and other Poems 

Slumbering received you then the Holy Church in 

its bosom ; 
Wakened from sleep are ye now, and the light in 

its radiant splendor 
Downward rains from the heaven ; — to-day on the 

threshold of childhood 
Kindly she frees you again, to examine and make 

your election. 
For she knows naught of compulsion, and only 

conviction desireth. 
This is the hour of your trial, the turning-point of 

existence, 
Seed for the coming days ; without revocation de- 

parteth 
Now from your lips the confession ; Bethink ye, 

before ye make answer ! 
Think not, O think not with guile to deceive the 

questioning Teacher. 
Sharp is his eye to-day, and a curse ever rests 

upon falsehood. 
Enter not with a lie on Life's journey ; the mul- 
titude hears you, 
Brothers and sisters and parents, what dear upon 

earth is and holy 
Standeth before your sight as a witness ; the Judge 

everlasting 
Looks from the sun down upon you, and angels in 

waiting beside him 
Grave your confession in letters of fire upon tab- 
lets eternal. 



TJie CJdldren of the Lord's Supper 129 

Thus then, — beheve ye in God, in the Father who 

this world created ? 
Him who redeemed it, the Son, and the Spirit 

where both are united ? 
Will ye promise me here, (a holy promise !) to 

cherish 
God more than all things earthly, and every man 

as a brother ? 
Will ye promise me here, to confirm your faith by 

your living, 
Th' heavenly faith of affection ! to hojDe, to forgive, 

and to suffer. 
Be what it may your condition, and walk before 

God in uprightness ? 
Will ye promise me this before God and man ? " — 

With a clear voice 
Answered the young men Yes ! and Yes ! with lips 

softly-breathing 
Answered the maidens eke. Then dissolved from 

the brow of the Teacher 
Clouds with the lightnings therein, and he spake in 

accents more gentle, 
Soft as the evening's breath, as harps by Babylon's 

rivers. 

" Hail, then, hail to you all ! To the heirdom of 
heaven be ye welcome ! 
Children no more from this day, but by covenant 
brothers and sisters ! 

VOL. IV. 6* I 



130 Ballads and other Pocvis 

Yet, — for what reason not children ? Of such is 

the kingdom of heaven. 
Here upon earth an assemblage of children, in 

heaven one father, 
Ruling them all as his household, — forgiving in 

turn and chastising, 
That is of human life a picture, as Scripture has 

taught us. 
Blest are the pure before God ! Upon purity and 

upon virtue 
Resteth the Christian Faith ; she herself from on 

high is descended. 
Strong as a man and pure as a child, is the sum of 

the doctrine, 
Which the Divine One taught, and suffered and 

died on the cross for. 
O, as ye wander this day from childhood's sacred 

asylum 
Downward and ever downward, and deeper in 

Age's chill valley, 
O, how soon will ye come, — too soon ! — and 

long to turn backward 
Up to its hill-tops again, to the sun-illumined, 

where Judgment 
Stood like a father before you, and Pardon, clad 

like a mother, 
Gave you her hand to kiss, and the loving heart 

was forgiven. 
Life was a play and your hands grasped after the 

roses of heaven ! 



The Cliildrcn of the Lord's Supper 131 

Seventy years have I lived already ; the father 

eternal 
Gave me gladness and care ; but the loveliest 

hours of existence, 
When I have steadfastly gazed in their eyes, I 

have instantly known them, 
Known them all again ; — they were my child' 

hood's acquaintance. 
Therefore take from henceforth, as guides in the 

paths of existence, 
Prayer, with her eyes raised to heaven, and Inno- 
cence, bride of man's childhood. 
Innocence, child beloved, is a guest from the world 

of the blessed. 
Beautiful, and in her hand a lily; on life's roaring 

billows 
Swings she in safety, she heedcth them not, in the 

ship she is sleeping. 
Calmly she gazes around in the turmoil of men ; 

in the desert 
Angels descend and minister unto her ; she herself 

knoweth 
Naught of her glorious attendance ; but follows 

faithful and humble, 
Follows so long as she may her friend ; O do 

not reject her. 
For she cometh from God and she holdeth the 

keys of the heavens. — * 
Prayer is Innocence' friend ; and willingly fiyclh 

incessant 



132 Ballads and other Poems 

'Twixt the earth and the sky, the carrier-pigeon of 
heaven. 

Son of Eternity, fettered in Time, and an exile, the 
Spirit 

Tugs at his chains evennore, and struggles like 
flame ever upward. 

Still he recalls with emotion his father's manifold 
mansions. 

Thinks of the land of h^s fathers, where blossomed 
more freshly the flowerets. 

Shone a more beautiful sun, and he played with 
the winged angels. 

Then grows the earth too narrow, too close ; and 
homesick for heaven 

Longs the wanderer again ; and the Spirit's 'long- 
ings are worship ; 

Worship is called his most beautiful hour, and its 
tongue is entreaty. 

Ah ! when the infinite burden of life descendeth 
upon us, 

Crushes to earth our hope, and, under the earth, in 
the graveyard, 

Then it is good to pray unto God ; for his sorrow- 
ing children 

Turns he ne'er from his door, but he heals and 
helps and consoles them. 

Yet is it better to pray when all things are pros- 
perous with' us, 

Pray in fortunate days, for life's most beautiful 
Fortune 



The CJiildreii of the Lord's Supper 133 

Kneels before the Eternal's throne ; and, with 

hands interfolded, 
Praises thankful and moved the only giver of bless- 
ings. 
Or do ye know, ye children, one blessing that 

comes not from Heaven ? 
What has mankind forsooth, the poor ! that it has 

not received ? 
Therefore, fall in the dust and pray ! The seraphs 

adoring 
Cover with pinions six their face in the glory of him 

who 
Hung his masonry pendant on naught, when the 

world he created. 
Earth declareth his might, and the firmament ut- 
ters his glory. 
Races blossom and die, and stars fall downward 

from heaven, 
Downward like withered leaves ; at the last stroke 

of midnight, millenniums 
Lay themselves down at his feet, and he sees them, 

but counts them as nothing. 
Who shall stand in his presence ? The wrath of 

the judge is terrific. 
Casting the insolent down at a glance. When he 

speaks in his anger 
Hillocks skip like the kid, and mountains leap like 

the roebuck. 
Yet, — why are ye afraid, ye children ? This awful 



134 Ballads and other Poems 

Ah ! is a merciful God ! God's voice was not in 

the earthquake, 
Not in the fire, nor the storm, but it was in the 

whispering breezes. 
Love is the root of creation ; God's essence ; 

worlds without number 
Lie in his bosom like children ; he made them for 

this purpose only. 
Only to love and to be loved again, he breathed 

forth his spirit 
Into the slumbering dust, and upright standing, it 

laid its 
Hand on its heart, and felt it was warm with a 

flame out of heaven. 
Quench, O quench not that flam 2 ! It is the 

breath of your being. 
Love is life, but hatred is death. Not father, nor 

mother 
Loved you, as God has loved you ; for 't was that 

you may be happy 
Gave he his only son. When he bowed down his 

head in the death-hour 
Solemnized Love its triumph ; the sacrifice then 

was completed. 
Lo ! then was rent on a sudden the vail of the tem- 
ple, dividing 
Earth and heaven apart, and the dead from \\rt\x 

sepulchres rising 
Whispered with pallid lips and low in the ears 01' 

each other 



TJie Children of the Load's Slipper 135 

Th' answer, but dreamed of before, to creation's 

enigma, — Atonement ! 
Depths of Love are Atonement's depths, for Love 

is Atonement. 
Therefore, child of mortaUty, love thou the merci- 
ful Father; 
Wish- what the Holy One wishes, and not from fear, 

but affection ; 
Fear is the virtue of slaves ; but the heart that lov- 

eth is willing ; 
Perfect was before God, and perfect is Love, and 

Love only. 
Lovest thou God as thou oughtest, then lovest thou 

likewise thy brethren ; 
One is the sun in heaven, and one, only one, is 

Love also. 
Bears not each human figure the godlike stamp on 

his forehead ? 
Readest thou not in his face thine origin ? Is he 

not sailing 
Lost like thyself on an ocean unknown, and is he 

not guided 
By the same stars that guide thee ? Why shouldst 

thou hate then thy brother ? 
Hateth he thee, forgive ! For 't is sweet to stam- 
mer one letter 
Of the Eternal's language ; — on earth it is called 

Forgiveness ! 
Knowest thou Him, who forgave, with the crown of 

thorns, on his temples ? 



136 Ballads and other Poems 

Earnestly prayed for his foe^, for his murderers? 

Say, dost thou know him ? 
Ah ! thou confessest his name, so follow likewise 

his example, 
Think of thy brother no ill, but throw a veil over 

his failings, 
Guide the erring aright ; for the good, the heavenly 

shepherd 
Took the lost lamb in his arms, and bore it back to 

its mother. 
This is the fruit of Love, and it is by its fruits that 

we know it. 
Love is the creature's welfare, with God ; but Love 

among mortals 
Is but an endless sigh ! He longs, and endures, 

and stands waiting, 
Suffers and yet rejoices, and smiles with tears on 

his eyelids. 
Hope, — so is called upon earth, his recompense, 

— Hope, the befriending. 
Does what she can, for she points evermore up to 

heaven, and faithful 
Plunges her anchor's peak in the depths of the 

grave, and beneath it 
Paints a more beautiful world, a dim, but a sweet 

play of shadows ! 
Races, better than we, have leaned on her waver- 
ing promise. 
Having naught else but Hope. Then praise we 

our Father in heaven. 



The Children of the Lord's Supper 137 

Him, who has given us more ; for to us has Hope 

been transfigured, 
Groping no longer in night; she is Faith, she is 

hving assurance. 
Faith is enhghtened Hope ; she is Hght, is the eye 

of affection. 
Dreams of the longing interprets, and carves their 

visions in marble. 
Faith is the sun of life ; and her countenance 

shines like the Hebrew's, 
For she has looked upon God ; the heaven on its 

stable foundation 
Draws she with chains down to earth, and the New 

Jerusalem sinketh 
Splendid with portals twelve in golden vapors de- 
scending. 
There enraptured she wanders, and looks at the 

figures majestic, 
Fears not the winged crowd, in the midst of them 

all is her homestead. 
Therefore love and believe ; for works will follow 

spontaneous 
Even as day does the sun ; the Right from the 

Good is an offspring, 
Love in a bodily shape ; and Christian works are 

no more than 
Animate Love and faith, as flowers are the animate 

spring-tide. 
Works do follow us all unto God ; there stand and 
bear witness 



138 Ballads and other Poems 

Not what they seemed, — but what they were only. 

Blessed is he who 
Hears their confession secure ; they are mute upon 

earth until death's hand 
Opens the mouth of the silent. Ye children, does 

^Death e'er alarm you t 
Death is the brother of Love, twin-brother is he, 

and is only 
More austere to behold. With a kiss upon lips 

that are fading 
Takes he the soul and departs, and rocked in the 

arms of affection, 
Places the ransomed child, new born, 'fore the face 

of its father. 
Sounds of his coming already I hear, — see dimly 

his pinions, 
Swart as the night, but witli stars strewn upon 

them ! I fear not before him. 
Death is only release, and in mercy is mute. On 

his bosom 
Freer breathes, in its coolness, my breast ; and face 

to face standing 
Look I on God as he is, a sun unpolluted by 

vapors ; 
Look on the light of the ages I loved, the spirits 

majestic, 
Nobler, better than I ; they stand by the throne all 

transfigured, 
Vested in white, and with harps of gold, and are 

singing an anthem, 



TJie Children of the Lord's Supper 139 

Writ ill the climate of heaven, in the language 

spoken by angels. 
You, in like manner, ye children beloved, he one 

day shall gather. 
Never forgets he the weary ; — then welcome, ye 

loved ones, hereafter ! 
Meanwhile forget not the keeping of vows, forget 

not the promise. 
Wander from holiness onward to holiness ; earth 

shall ye heed not ; 
Earth is but dust and heaven is light ; I have 

pledged you to heaven. 
God of the universe, hear me ! thou fountain of 

Love everlasting. 
Hark to the voice of thy servant ! I send up my 

prayer to thy heaven ! 
Let me hereafter not miss at thy throne one spirit 

of all these, 
Whom thou hast given me here ! I have loved 

them all like a father. 
May they bear witness for me, that I taught them 

the way of salvation, 
Faithful, so far as I knew, of thy word ; again may 

they know me, 
Fall on their Teacher's breast, and before thy face 

may I place them, 
Pure as they now are, but only more tried, and ex- 
claiming with gladness. 
Father, lo ! I am here, and the children, whom thou 

hast given me ! " 



140 Ballads and other Poems 

Weeping he spake in these words ; and now at 
the beck of the old man 

Knee against knee they knitted a wreath round the 
altar's enclosure. 

Kneeling he read then the prayers of the consecra- 
tion, and softly 

With him the children read ; at the close, with 
tremulous accents, 

Asked he the peace of heaven, a benediction upon 
them. 

Now should have ended his task for the day ; the 
following Sunday 

Was for the young appointed to eat of the Lord's 
holy Supper. 

Sudden, as struck from the clouds, stood the Teach- 
er silent and laid his 

Hand on his forehead, and cast his looks upward ; 
while thoughts high and holy 

Flew through the midst of his soul, and his eyes 
glanced with wonderful brightness. 

" On the next Sunday, who knows ! perhaps I shall 
rest in the graveyard ! 

Some one perhaps of yourselves, a lily broken un- 
timely. 

Bow down his head to the earth ; why delay I ? the 
hour is accomplished. 

Warm is the heart ; — I will ! for to-day grows the 
harv'est of. heaven. 

What I began accomplish I now; what failing 
therein is 



The CJiildrcn of the Lo7'd's Supper 141 

I, the old man, will answer to God and the reverend 
father. 

Say to me only, ye children, ye denizens new-come 
in heaven, 

Are ye ready this day to eat of the bread of Atone- 
ment ? 

What it denoteth, that know ye full well, I have 
told it you often. 

Of the new covenant symbol it is, of Atonement a 
token, 

Stablished between earth and heaven. Man by his 
sins and transgressions 

Far has wandered from God, from his essence. 
'T was in the beginning 

Fast by the Tree of Knowledge he fell, and it 
hangs its crown o'er the 

Fall to this day ; in the Thought is the Fall ; in 
the Heart the Atonement. 

Infinite is the fall, — the Atonement infinite like- 
wise. 

See ! behind me, as far as the old man remembers, 
and forward. 

Far as Hope in her flight can reach with her 
wearied pinions. 

Sin and Atonement incessant go through the life- 
time of mortals. 

Sin is brought forth full-grown ; but Atonement 
sleeps in our bosoms 

Still as the cradled babe ; and dreams of heaven 
and of angels, 



14- Ballads and other Pccnis 

Cannot awake to sensation ; is like the tones in 

the harp's strings, 
Spirits imprisoned, that wait evermore the deliv- 
erer's finger. 
Therefore, ye children beloved, descended the 

Prince of Atonement, 
Woke the slumberer from sleep, and she stands 

now with eyes all resplendent, 
Bright as the vault of the sky, and battles with Sin 

and o'ercomes her. 
Downward to earth he came and transfigured, 

thence reascended. 
Not from the heart in like wise, for there he still 

lives in the Spirit, 
Loves and atones evermore. So long as Time is, 

is Atonement. 
Therefore with reverence take this day her visible 

token. 
Tokens are dead if the things live not. The light 

everlasting 
Unto the blind is not, but is born of the eye that 

has vision. 
Neither in bread nor in wine, but in the heart that 

is hallowed 
Lieth forgiveness enshrined ; the intention alone 

of amendment 
Fruits of the earth ennobles to heavenly things, 

and removes all 
Sin and the guerdon of sin. Only Love with his 

arms wide extended. 



The Children of the Lords Supper 143 

Penitence weeping and praying; the Will that is 
tried, and whose gold flows 

Purified forth from the flames ; in a word, mankind 
by Atonement 

Breaketh Atonement's bread, and drinketh Atone- 
ment's wine-cup. 

But he who cometh up hither, unworthy, with hate 
in his bosom, 

Scoffing at men and at God, is guilty of Christ's 
blessed body, 

And the Redeemer's blood ! To himself he eateth 
and drinketh 

Death and doom ! And from this, presei-ve us, 
thou heavenly Father ! 

Are ye ready, ye children, to eat of the bread of 
Atonement ? " 

Thus with emotion he asked, and together an- 
swered the children, 

" Yes ! " with deep sobs interrupted. Then read 
he the due supplications. 

Read the Form of Communion, and in chimed the 
organ and anthem : 

" O Holy Lamb of God, who takest away our trans- 
gressions, 

Hear us ! give us thy peace ! have mercy, have 
mercy upon us I " 

Th' old man, with trembling hand, and heavenly 
pearls on his eyelids, 

Filled now the chalice and paten, and dealt round 
the mystical symbols. 



141- Ballads and other Poems 

O, then seemsd it to me as if God, with the broad 

eye of midday, 
Clearer looked in at the windows, and all the trees 

in the churchyard 
Bowed down their smnmits of green, and the grass 

on the graves 'gan to shiver. 
But in the children (I noted it well ; I knew it) 

there ran a 
Tremor of holy rapture along through their ice-cold 

members. 
Decked like an altar before them, there stood the 

green earth, and above it 
Heaven opened itself, as of old before Stephen ; 

they saw there 
Radiant in glory the Father, and on his right hand 

the Redeemer. 
Under them hear they the clang of harpstrings, 

and angels from gold clouds 
Beckon to them like brothers, and fan with their 

pinions of purple. 

Closed was the Teacher's task, and with heaven 

in their hearts and their faces. 
Up rose the children all, and each bowed him, 

weeping full sorely. 
Downward to kiss that reverend hand, but all of 

them pressed he 
Moved to his bosom, and laid, with a prayer, his 

hands full of blessings. 
Now on the holy breast, and now on the innocent 

tresses. 



MISCELLANEOUS 



VOL. IV. 7 



THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH 

UNDER a spreading chestnut-tree 
The village smithy stands ; 
The smith, a mighty man is he, 

With large and sinewy hands ; 
And the muscles of his brawny arms 
Are strong as iron bands. 

' His hair is crisp, and black, and long. 

His face is like the tan ; 
His brow is wet with honest sweat, 

He earns whate'er he can, 
And looks the whole world in the face, 

For he owes not any man. 

Week in, week out, from morn till night, 
You can hear his beUows blow ; 

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, 
With measured beat and slow. 

Like a sexton ringing the village bell, 
When the evening sun is low. 



148 Ballads and otJicr Poems 

And children coming home from school 
Look in at the open door ; 

They love to see the flaming forge, 
And hear the bellows roar, 

And catch the burning sparks that fly 
Like chaff from a threshing-floor. 



He goes on Sunday to the church. 

And sits among his boys j 
He hears the parson pray and preach, 

He hears his daughter's voice, 
Singing in the village choir. 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 



It sounds to himi like her mother's voice. 

Singing in Paradise ! 
He needs must think of her once more. 

How in the grave she lies ; 
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 

A tear out of his eyes. 



Toiling, — rejoicing 

Onw^ard through life he goes ; 
Each morning sees some task begin, 

Each evening sees it close ; 
Something attempted, something done. 

Has earned a night's repose. 



Endymion 149 

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 

For the lesson thou hast taught ! 
Thus at the flaming forge of life 

Our fortunes must be wrought ; 
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 

Each burning deed and thought ! 



T 



ENDYMION 



HE rising moon has hid the stars ; 

Her level rays, like golden bars, 
Lie on the landscape green. 
With shadows brown between. 



And silver white the river gleams. 
As if Diana, in her dreams, 
Had dropt her silver bow 
Upon the meadows low. 



On such a tranquil night as this. 

She woke Endymion -with a kiss, 

When, sleeping in the grove, 

He dreamed not of her love. 



150 Ballads and other Poems 

Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought, 
Love gives itself, but is not bought ; 
Nor voice, nor sound betrays 
Its deep, impassioned gaze. 

It comes, — the beautiful, the free, 
The crown of all humanity, — 
In silence and alone 
To seek the elected one. 

It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep, 
Are Life's oblivion, the -soul's sleep, 
And kisses the closed eyes 
Of him, who slumbering lies. 

O weary hearts ! O slumbering eyes ! 
O drooping souls, whose destinies 

Are fraught with fear and pain, 

Ye shall be loved again ! 

No one is so accursed by fate, 
No one so utterly desolate. 

But some heart, though unknown, 

Responds unto his own. 

Responds, — as if with unseen wings. 
An angel touched its quivering strings ; 
And whispers, in its song, 
" Where hast thou stayed so long ! " 



TJie Two Locks of Hair 151 



THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR 

FROM THE GERMAN OF PFIZER 

A YOUTH, light-hearted and content, 
I wander through the world ; 
Here, Arab-like, is pitched my tent 
And straight again is furled. 

Yet oft I dream, that once a wife 
Close in my heart was locked, 

And in the sweet repose of life 
A blessed child I rocked. 

I wake ! Away that dream, — away ! 

Too long did it remain ! 
So long, that both by night and day 

It ever comes again. 

The end lies ever in my thought ; 

To a grave so cold and deep 
The mother beautiful was brought ; 

Then dropt the child asleep. 

But now the dream is wholly o'er, 

I bathe mine eyes and see ; 
And wander through the world once more, 

A youth so light and free. 



152 Ballads and other Poems 

Two locks, — and they are wondrous fair,- 

Left me that vision mild ; 
The brown is from the mother's hair, 

The blond is from the child. 

And when I see that lock of gold, 
Pale grows the evening-red ; 

And when the dark lock I behold, 
I wish that I were dead. 



IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY 

No hay pajaros en los nldos de antano. 

Spanish Proverb. 

THE sun is bright, — the air is clear. 
The darting swallows soar and sing. 
And from the stately elms I hear 
The blue-bird prophesying Spring. 

So blue yon winding river flows. 
It seems an outlet from the sky, 

Where waiting till the west wind blows. 
The freighted clouds at anchor lie. 

All things are new; — the buds, the leaves. 
That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest. 

And even the nest beneath the eaves ; — 
There are no birds in last year's nest ! 



The Rainy Day 153 

All things rejoice in youth and love, 
The fulness of their first delight ! 

And learn from the soft heavens above 
The melting tenderness of night. 

Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme, 
Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay ; 

Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime, 
For O ! it is not always May ! 

Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth, 
To some good angel leave the rest ; 

For Time will teach thee soon the truth, 
There are no birds in last year's nest ! 



THE RAINY DAY 

THE day is cold, and dark, and dreary ; 
It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, 
But at every gust the dead leaves fall. 
And the day is dark and dreary. 

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary ; 
It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 
7* 



154 Ballads and other Poems 

My thoughts still cHng to the mouldering Past, 
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast 
And the days are dark and dreary. 

Be still, sad heart ! and cease repining ; 
Behind the cjouds is the sun still shining ; 
Thy fate is the common fate of all, 
Into each life some rain must fall. 

Some days must be dark and dreary. 



GOD'S-ACRE 

I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls 
The burial-ground God's- Acre ! It is just ; 
It consecrates each grave within its walls, 

And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust. 

God's- Acre ! Yes, that blessed name imparts 
Comfort to those, who in the grave have sown 

The seed, that they had garnered in their hearts, 
Their bread of life, alas ! no more their own. 

Into its furrows shall we all be cast, 

In the sure faith, that we shall rise again 

At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast 
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain. 



To tJic River diaries 155 

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, 
In the fair gardens of that second birth ; 

And each bright blossom, mingle its perfume 
With that of flowers, which never bloomed on 
earth. 

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod. 
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow ; 

This is the field and Acre of our God, 

This is the place, where human harvests grow ! 



TO THE RIVER CHARLES 

RIVER ! that in silence windest 
Through the meadows, bright and free, 
Till at length thy rest thou findest 
In the bosom of the sea ! 

Four long years of mingled feeling. 

Half in rest, and half in strife, 
I have seen thy waters stealing 

Onward, like the stream of life. 

Thou hast taught me. Silent River ! 

Many a lesson, deep and long ; 
Thou hast been a generous giver ; 

I can give thee but a song. 



156 Ballads and other Poems 

Oft in sadness and in illness, 

I have watched thy current glide, 

Till the beauty of its stillness 
Overflowed me, like a tide. 

And in better hours and brighter, 
When I saw thy waters gleam, 

I have felt my heart beat lighter. 
And leap onward with thy stream. 

Not for this alone I love thee, 
Nor because thy waves of blue 

From celestial seas above thee 
Take their own celestial hue. 

Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee, 

And thy waters disappear. 
Friends I love have dwelt beside thee, 

And have made thy margin dear. 

More than this ; — thy name reminds me 
Of three friends, all true and tried ; 

And that name, like magic, binds me 
Closer, closer to thy side. 

Friends my soul with joy remembers ! 

How like quivering flames they start. 
When I fan the living embers 

On -the hearth-stone of my heart ! 



Blind Bartimeus 157 

'T is for this, thou Silent River ! 

That my spirit leans to thee ; 
Thou hast been a generous giver, 

Take this idle song from me. 



BLIND BARTIMEUS 

BLIND Bartimeus at the gates 
Of Jericho in darkness waits ; 
He hears the crowd ; — he hears a breath 
Say, " It is Christ. of Nazareth ! " 
And calls, in tones of agony, 
'iT/OfoO, eXer/croi' yue / 

The thronging multitudes increase ; 
Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace ! 
But still, above the noisy crowd, 
The beggar's cry is shrill and loud ; 
Until they say, " He calleth thee ! " 
Gapo-ei, eyeipai, (^(ova, ae / 

Then saith the Christ, as silent stands 
The crowd, " What wilt thou at my hands ? 
And he replies, " O give me light ! 
Rabbi, restore the blind man's sight ! " 
And Jesus answers, "Ynaye • 
*H ■TriaTis aov creVooAte ere / 



158 Ballads and other Poems 

Ye that have eyes, yet cannot see, 
In darkness and in misery, 
Recall those mighty Voices Three, 

'ir^croG, iXerjcrov fX€ 1 
QdpcTd, eyeipai, vrraye / 

H TTLCTTLS CTOU a€(r(OK€ (T€ / 



THE GOBLET OF LIFE 

FILLED is Life's goblet to the brim ; 
And though my eyes with tears are dim, 
I see its sparkling bubbles swim, 
And chant a melancholy hymn 
With solemn voice and slow. 

No purple flowers, — no garlands green, 
Conceal the goblet's shade or sheen, 
Nor maddening draughts of Hippocrene, 
Like gleams of sunshine, flash between 
Thick leaves of mistletoe. 

This goblet, wrought with curious art. 
Is filled with waters, that upstart, 
When the deep fountains of the heart, 
By strong convulsions rent apart, 
Are runniup: all to waste. 



The Goblet of Life 159 

And as it mantling passes round, 
With fennel is it wreathed and crowned, 
Whose seed and foliage sun-imbrowned 
Are in its waters steeped and drowned, 
And give a bitter taste. 

Above the lowly plants it towers, 
The fennel, with its yellow flowers. 
And in an earlier age than ours 
Was gifted with the wondrous powers. 
Lost vision to restore. 

It gave new strength, and fearless mood ; 
And gladiators, fierce and rude. 
Mingled it in their daily food ; 
And he who battled and subdued, 
A wreath of fennel wore. 

Then in Life's goblet freely press, 
The leaves that give it bitterness. 
Nor prize the colored waters less, 
For in thy darkness and distress 

New light and strength they give ! 

And he who has not learned to know 
How false its sparkling bubbles show. 
How bitter are the drops of woe. 
With which its brim ma.y overflow, 
He has not learned to live. 



i6o Ballads and other Poems 

The prayer of Ajax was for light ; 
Through all that dark and desperate fight, 
The blackness of that noonday night, 
He asked but the return of sight, 
To see his foeman's face. 

Lei our unceasing, earnest prayer 
Be, too, for light, — for strength to bear 
Our portion of the weight of care, 
That crushes into dumb despair 
One half the human race. 

O suffering, sad humanity ! 

ye afflicted ones, who lie 
Steeped to the lips in misery. 
Longing, and yet afraid to die. 

Patient, though sorely tried ! 

1 pledge you in this cup of grief, 
Where floats the fennel's bitter leaf! 
The Battle of our Life is brief, 

The alarm, — the struggle, — the relief, 
Then sleep we side by side. 



Maidenhood i6i 



MAIDENHOOD 

MAIDEN ! with the meek, brown eyes, 
In whose orbs a shadow lies 
Like the dusk in evening skies ! ' \ 

Thou whose locks outshine the sun. 

Golden tresses, wreathed in one, i 

As the braided streamlets run ! j 

Standing, with reluctant feet. 

Where the brook and river meet, ; 

Womanhood and childhood fleet ! 

Gazing, with a timid glance, •' 

On the brooklet's swift advance, 

On the river's broad expanse ! • 

Deep and still, that gliding stream ' 

Beautiful to thee must seem, 

As the river of a dream. \ 

Then why pause with indecision, ^ 

When bright angels in thy vision j 

Beckon thee to fields Elysian ? ' 

VOL. IV. K 



:62 Ballads and other Poems 

Seest thou shadows saihng by, 
As the clove, with startled eye, 
Sees the falcon's shadow fly? 

Hearest thou voices on the shore, 
That our ears perceive no more, 
Deafened by the cataract's roar? 

O, thou child of many prayers ! 

Life hath quicksands, — Life hath snares ! 

Care and age come unawares ! 



Like the swell of some sweet tune. 
Morning rises into noon, 
May glides onward into June. 



Childhood is the bough, where slumbered 
Birds and blossoms many-numbered ; — 
Age, that bough with snows encumbered. 

Gather, then, each flower that grows. 
When the young heart overflows. 
To embalm that tent of snows. 

Bear a lily in thy hand ; 

Gates of brass cannot withstand 

One touch of that magic wand. 



Excelsior 163 

Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth. 
In thy heart the clew of youth, 
On thy hps the smile of truth. 

O, that dew, like balm, shall steal 
Into wounds, that cannot heal, 
Even as sleep our eyes doth seal ; 

And that smile, like sunshine, dart 
Into many a sunless heart, 
P'or a smile of God thou art. 



EXCELSIOR 

THE shades of night were falling fast, 
As through an Alpine village passed 
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, 
A banner with the strange device, 
Excelsior ! 

His brow was sad ; his eye beneath. 
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath. 
And like a silver clarion rung 
The accents of that unknown tongue, 
Excelsior ! 



164 Ballads and other Poems 

In hapjDy homes he saw the Hght 
Of household fires gleam warm and bright ; 
Above, the sjDectral glaciers shone, 
And fi-om his lips escaped a groan. 
Excelsior ! 

" Tr}^ not the Pass ! " the old man said ; 
" Dark lowers the tempest overhead, 
The roaring torrent is deep and wide ! " 
And loud that clarion voice replied, 
Excelsior ! 

" O stay," the maiden said, " and rest 
Thy weary head upon this breast ! " 
A tear stood in his bright blue eye, 
But still he answered, with a sigh, 
Excelsior ! 

" Beware the pine-tree's withered branch ! 
Beware the awful avalanche ! " 
This was the peasant's last Good-night, 
A voice replied, far up the height. 
Excelsior ! 

At break of day, as heavenward 
The pious monks of Saint Bernard 
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 
A voice cried through the startled air, 
Excelsior ! 



Excelsior i5c 

A traveller, by the faithful hound, 
Half-buried in the snow was found, 
Still grasping in his hand of ice 
That banner with the strange device, 
Excelsior ! _ 

There in the twilight cold and gray, 
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay. 
And from the sky, serene and far, 
A voice fell, like a falling star. 
Excelsior ! 



POEMS ON SLAVERY 



1^42 



[The following poems, with one exception, were written at 
sea, in the latter part of October, 1842. I had not then 
heard of Dr. Channing's death. Since that event, the 
poem addressed to him is no longer appropriate. I have 
decided, however, to let it remain as it was written, in 
testimony of my admiration for a great and good man.] 



TO WILLIAM E. CHANNING 



THE pages of thy book I read, 
And as I closed each one, 
My heart, responding, ever said, 
" Servant of God ! well done ! " 



Well done ! Thy words are great and bold ; | 

At times they seem to me, \ 
Like Luther's, in the days of old, 

Half-battles for the free. \ 

1 

! 

Go on, until this land revokes 

The old and chartered Lie, j 

The feudal curse, whose whips and yokes ' 

Insult humanity. 

A voice is ever at thy side i 

Speaking in tones of might. 

Like the prophetic voice, that cried . ' 

To John in Patmos, " Write ! " i 

VOL. IV. 8 ^ 



I/O Poems oil Slavery 

AVrite ! and tell out this bloody tale j 

Record this dire eclipse, 
This Day of Wrath, this Endless Wail, 

This dread Apocalypse ! 



THE SLAVE'S DREAM 

BESIDE the ungathered rice he lay, 
His sickle in his hand ; 
His breast was bare, his matted hair 

Was buried in the sand. 
Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, 
He saw his Native Land. 

Wide through the landscape of his dreams 

The lordly Niger flowed ; 
Beneath the palm-trees on the plain 

Once more a king he strode ; 
And heard the tinkling caravans 

Descend the mountain-road. 

He saw once more his dark-eyed queen 

Among her children stand ; 
They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks, 

They held him by the hand ! — 
A tear burst from the sleeper's lids 

And fell into the sand. 



TJie Slaves Dream 171 

And then at furious speed he rode 

Along the Niger's bank ; 
His bridle-reins were golden chains, 

And, with a martial clank, 
At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel 

Smitinsf his stallion's flank. 



Before him, like a blood-red flag. 

The bright flamingoes flew ; 
From morn till night he followed their flight, 

O'er plains where the tamarind grew, 
Till he saw the roofs of Caffi-e huts. 

And the ocean rose to view. 

At night he heard the lion roar. 

And the hyaiua scream, 
And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds 

Beside some hidden stream ; 
And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums, 

Through the triumph of his dream. 

The forests, with their myriad tongues. 

Shouted of liberty ; 
And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud. 

With a voice so wild and free, 
That he started in his sleep and smiled 

At their tempestuous glee. 



J 2 Pocms on Slavery 

He did not feel die driver's whip, 

Nor die burning heat of day ; 
For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep, 

And his lifeless body lay 
A worn-out fetter, that the soul 

Had broken and thrown away ! 



THE GOOD PART, THAT SHALL 
NOT BE TAKEN AWAY 

SHE dwells by Great Kenhawa's side, 
In valleys green and cool ; 
And all her hope and all her pride 
Are in the village school. 

Her soul, like the transparent air 

That robes the hills above. 
Though not of earth, encircles there 

All tilings with arms of love. 

And thus she walks among her girls 
With praise and mild rebukes ; 

Subduing e'en rude village churls 
By her angelic looks. 

She reads to them at eventide 
Of One who came to save 



TJie Good Part 173 

To cast the captive's chains aside 
And liberate the slave. 

And oft the blessed time foretells 

When all men shall be free ; 
And musical, as silver bells, 

Their falling chains shall be. 

And following her beloved Lord, 

In decent poverty, 
She makes her life one sweet record 

And deed of charity. 

For she was rich, and gave up all 

To break the iron bands 
Of those who waited in her hall, 

And labored in her lands. 

Long since beyond the Southern Sea 
Their outbound sails have sped, 

While she, in meek humility. 
Now earns her daily bread. 

It is their prayers, which never cease, 
That clothe her with such grace ; 

Their blessing is the light of peace 
That shines upon her face. 



174 • Poems on Slavery 



THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL 
SWAMP 

^ . 

IN dark fens of the Dismal Swamp 
The hunted Negro lay ; 
He saw the lire of the midnight camp, 
And heard at times a horse's tramp 
And a bloodhound's distant bay. 

Where will-o'-the-wisps and glow-worms shine, 

In bulrush and in brake ; 
AVhere waving mosses shroud the pine. 
And the cedar grows, and the poisonous vine 

Is spotted like the snake ; 

Where hardly a human foot could pass. 

Or a human heart would dare, 
On the quaking turf of the green morass 
He crouched in the rank and tangled grass, 

Like a wild beast in his lair. 

A poor old slave, infirm and lame ; 

Great scars deformed his face ; 
On his forehead he bore the brand of shame, 
Aad the rags, that hid his mangled frame, 

Were the livery of disgrace. 



The Slave Singing at MidnigJu 175 

All things above were bright and fair, 

All things were glad and free ; 
Lithe squirrels darted here and there, 
And wild birds filled the echoing air 

With songs of Liberty ! 

On him alone was the doom of pain, 

From the morning of his birth ; 
On him alone the curse of Cain 
Fell, like a flail on the garnered grain, 
And struck him to the earth ! 



THE SLAVE SINGING AT 
MIDNIGHT 

LOUD he sang the psalm of David ! 
He, a Negro and enslaved, 
Sang of Israel's victory. 
Sang of Zion, bright and free. 

In that hour, when night is calmest, 
Sang he from the Hebrew Psalmist, 
In a voice so sweet and clear 
That I could not choose but hear, 

Songs of triumph, and ascriptions. 
Such as reached the swart Egyptians, 



176 Poems on Slavery 

When upon the Red Sea coast 
Perished Pharaoh and his host. 

And the voice of his devotion 
Filled my soul with strange emotion ; 
For its tones by turns were glad, 
Sweetly solemn, wdldly sad. 

Paul and Silas, in their prison, 
Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen. 
And an earthquake's arm of might 
Broke their dungeon-gates at night. 

But, alas ! what holy angel 
Brings the Slave this glad evangel ? 
And what earthquake's arm of might 
Breaks his dungeon-gates at night ? 



THE AVITNESSES 

IN Ocean's wide domains. 
Half buried in the sands. 
Lie skeletons in chains. 

With shackled feet and hands. 

Beyond the fall of dews, 
Deeper than plummet lies, 



The Witnesses lyj 

Float ships, with all their crews, 
No more to sink nor rise. 



There the black Slave-ship swims, 
Freighted with human forms, 

Whose fettered, fleshless limbs 
Are not the sport of storms. 

These are the bones of Slaves ; 

They gleam from the abyss ; 
They cry, from yawning waves, 

" We are the Witnesses ! " 

Within Earth's wide domains 
Are markets for men's lives ; 

Their necks are galled with chains, 
Their wrists are cramped with gyves. 

Dead bodies, that the kite 
In deserts makes its prey ; 

Murders, that with affright 

Scare school-boys from their play ! 

All evil thoughts and deeds ; 

Anger, and lust, and pride ; 
The foulest, rankest weeds. 

That choke Life's groaning tide ! 

VOL. IV. 8* L 



[jS Poems on Slavery 

These are the woes of Slaves ; 

They glare from the ab3-ss ; 
They cry, from unknown graves, 

" We are the Witnesses ! " 



THE QUADROON GIRL 

THE Slaver in the broad lagoon 
Lay moored with idle sail ; 
He waited for the rising moon, 
And for the evening gale. 

Under the shore his boat w^as tied. 

And all her listless crew 
Watched the gray alligator slide 

Lito the still bayou. 

Odors of orange-flowers, and spice, 
Reached them from time to time. 

Like airs that breathe from Paradise 
Upon a world of crime. 

The Planter, under his roof of thatch. 
Smoked thoughtfully and slow ; 

The Slaver's thumb was on the latch. 
He seemed in haste to go. 



The Quadroon Girl lyg 

He said, " My ship at anchor rides 

In yonder broad lagoon ; 
I only wait the evening tides, 

And the rising of the moon." 

Before them, with her face upraised. 

In timid attitude. 
Like one half curious, half amazed, 

A Quadroon maiden stood. 

Her eyes were large, and full of light. 

Her arms and neck were bare ; 
No garment she wore save a kirtle bright, ^ 

And her own long, raven hair. 

And on her Hps there played a smile 

As holy, meek, and faint. 
As lights in some cathedral aisle 

The features of a saint. 

" The soil is barren, — the farm is old " ; 

The thoughtful Planter said ; 
Then looked upon the Slaver's gold, 

And then upon the maid. 

His heart within him was at strife 

With such accursed gains : 
For he knew whose passions gave her life. 

Whose blood ran in her veins. 



i8o Poems on Slavery 

But the. voice of nature was too weak ; 

He took the gUttering gold ! 
Then pale as death grew the maiden's cheek, 

Her hands as icy cold. 

The Slaver led her from the door, 

He led her by the hand. 
To be his slave and paramour 

In a strange and distant land ! 



THE WARNING 

BEWARE ! The Israelite of old, who tore 
The lion in his path, — when, poor and blind, 
He saw the blessed light of heaven no more, 

Shorn of his noble strength and forced to grind 
In prison, and at last led forth to be 
A pander to Philistine revelry, — 

Upon the pillars of the temple laid 

His desperate hands, and in its overthrow 

Destroyed himself, and with him those who made 
A cruel mockery of his sightless woe ; 

The poor, blind Slave, the scoff and jest of all, 

Expired, and thousands perished in the fall ! 



The Warning 1 8 1 

There is a poor, blind Samson in this land, 

Shorn of his strength, and bound in bonds of 
steel, 

Who may, in some grim revel, raise his hand. 
And shake the pillars of this Commonweal, 

Till the vast Temple of our liberties 

A shapeless mass of wreck and rubbish lies. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT 



1843 



DRAMATIS PERSONS 



Victorian,) students of Alcald. 

Hypolito, ) 

The Count of Lara, 1 . . Gentlemen of Madrid. 
Don Carlos, ) 
The Archbishop of Toledo. 
■^ A Cardinal. 

Beltran Cruzado, Count of the Gypsies. 

Bartolome Roman, . . . . A young Gypsy. 
The Padre Cura of Guadarrama, 

Pedro Crespo, Alcalde. 

Pancho, Alguacil. 

Francisco, Lara's Servant. 

Chispa, Victorian^ s Servant. 

Baltasar, . , Innkeeper. 

Preciosa, A Gypsy girl. 

•Angelica, A poor girl. 

Martina, The Padre Ctira's tiiece. 

Dolores, Preciosa's maid. 

Gypsies, Musicians, &^c. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. The Count of Lara's chambers. Night. 
The Count hi his dressing-gown^ smoking and convers- 
ing with Don Carlos. 

LARA. 

'X.^OU were not at the play to-night, Don Carlos ; 
X How happened it ? 

DON CARLOS. 

I had engagements elsewhere. 
Pray who was there ? 

LARA. 

Why, all the town and court. 
The house was crowded \ and the busy fans 
Among the gayly dressed and perfumed ladies 
Fluttered like butterflies among the flowers. 
There was the Countess of Medina Celi ; 
The Goblin Lady with her Phantom Lover, 
Her Lindo Don Diego ; Doiia Sol, 
And Dona Serafina, and her cousins. 



1 86 The Spanish Student \ 

DON CARLOS. ; 

What was the play ? 5 

LARA. \ 

1 
It was a dull affair ; i 

One of those comedies in which you see, ' 

As Lope says, the history of the world 

Brought down from Genesis to the Day of Judg- t. 

ment. 

There were three duels fought in the first act, 

Three gentlemen receiving deadly wounds, ; 

Laying their hands upon their hearts, and saying, 

" O, I am dead ! " a lover in a closet. 

An old hidalgo, and a gay Don Juan, • j 

A Dona Inez with a black mantilla, j 

Followed at twilight by an unknown lover, , 

Who looks intently where he knows she is not ! 

DON CARLOS. ' 

Of course, the Preciosa danced to-night ? ] 

LARA. I 

And never better. Every footstep fell 
As lightly as a sunbeam on the water. 
I think the girl extremely beautiful. \ 

DON CARLOS. : 

Almost beyond the privilege of woman ! 

I saw her in the Prado yesterday. ; 

Her step was royal, — queen-like, — and her face i 

As beautiful as a saint's in Paradise. ; 



TJie Spanish Student 187 

LARA. 

May not a saint fall from her Paradise, 
And be no more a saint ? 

DON CARLOS. 

Why do you ask ? 

LARA. 

Because I have heard it said this angel fell, 
And, though she is a virgin outwardly, 
Within she is a sinner ; like those panels 
Of doors and altar-pieces the old monks 
Painted in convents, with the Virgin Mary 
On the outside, and on the inside Venus ! 

DON CARLOS. 

You do her wrong ; indeed, you do her wrong ! 
She is as virtuous as she is fair. 

LARA. 

How credulous you are ! Why look you, friend, 
There 's not a virtuous woman in Madrid, 
In this whole city ! And would you persuade me 
That a mere dancing-girl, who shows herself. 
Nightly, half naked, on the stage, for money, 
And with voluptuous motions fires the blood 
Of inconsiderate youth, is to be held 
A model for her virtue ? 

DON CARLOS. 

You forget 
^be is a Gypsy girl. 



The Spanish Student 



LARA. ' 

And therefore won i 

The easier. 

■ i 

DON CARLOS. ! 

Nay, not to be won at all ! 
The only virtue that a Gypsy prizes 

Is chastity. That is her only virtue. j 

Dearer than life she holds it. I remember ; 

■ A Gypsy woman, a vile, shameless bawd, ' 
Whose craft was to betray the young and fair ; 

And yet this woman was above all bribes. J 

And when a noble lord, touched by her beauty, . 

The wild and wizard beauty of her race, , 

Offered her gold to be what she made others, i 

She turned upon him, with a look of scorn, ' 

And smote him in the face ! j 

LARA. 

And does that prove 

That Preciosa is above suspicion ? i 

DON CARLOS. | 

It proves a nobleman may be repulsed 

When he thinks conquest easy. I believe 

That woman, in her deepest degradation, 

Holds something sacred, something undefiled, I 

Some pledge and keepsake of her higher nature, I 

And, like the diamond in the dark, retains : 

Some quenchless gleam of the celestial light ! \ 



The Spanish Student 189 

LARA. 

Yet Preciosa would have taken the gold. 

DON CARLOS [rising). 

I do not think so. 

LARA. 

I am sure of it. 
But why this haste ? Stay yet a little longer. 
And fight the battles of your Dulcinea. 

DON CARLOS. 

'T is late. I must begone, for if I stay 
You will not be persuaded. 

LARA. 

Yes /persuade me. 

DON CARLOS. 

No one so deaf as he who will not hear ! 

LARA. 

No one so blind as he who will not see ! 

DON CARLOS. 

And so good night. I wish you pleasant dreams, 
And greater faith in woman. \_Exit. 

LARA. 

Greater faith ! 
I have the greatest faith ; for I believe 
Victorian is her lover. I believe 
That I shall be to-morrow ; and thereafter 
Another, and another, and another, 



190 The Spanish Student 

Chasing each other through her zodiac, 
As Taurus chases Aries. 

{Enter Francisco ivith a casket.) 

Well, Francisco, 
What speed with Preciosa ? 

FRANCISCO. 

None, my lord. 
She sends your jewels back, and bids me tell you 
She is not to be purchased by your gold. 

LARA. 

Then I will try some other way to win her. 
Pray, dost thou know Victorian ? 

FRANCISCO. 

Yes, my lord ; 
I saw him at the jeweller's to-day. 

LARA. 

What was he doing there ? 

FRANCISCO. 

I saw him buy 
A golden ring, that had a ruby in it. 

LARA. 

Was there another like it ? 

FRANCISCO. 

One so like it 
I could not choose between them. 



The Spanish Student 191 

LARA. 

It is well. 
Tomorrow morning bring that ring to me. 
Do not forget. Now light me to my bed 

[Exeimt. 



SCENE II. 

A street in Madrid. Enter Chispa, follozved by musicians, 
with a bagpipe, guitars, aftd other instruments. 

CHISPA. 

Abernuncio Satanas ! and a plague on all lovers 
who ramble about at night, drinking the elements, 
instead of sleeping quietly in their beds. Every 
.dead man to his cemetery, say I ; and every friar 
to his monastery. Now, here 's my master, Victo- 
rian, yesterday a cow-keeper, and to-day a gentle- 
man ; yesterday a student, and to-day a lover ; 
and I must be up later than the nightingale, for 
as the abbot sings so must the sacristan respond. 
God grant he may soon be married, for then sh"ll 
all this serenading cease. Ay, marry ! marr}^ ! mar- 
ry ! Mother, what does marry mean ? It means to 
spin, to bear children, and to v/eep, my daughte" ! 
And, of a truth, there is something more in matri- 
mony than the wedding-ring. ( To the musie-ans. ) And 
now, gentlemen, Pax vobiscum ! as the ass said to 



ig2 TJie SpaiiisJi Student 

the cabbages. Pray, walk this way ; and don't hang 
down your heads. It is no disgrace to have an old 
father and a ragged shirt. Now, look you, you are 
o-entlemen who lead the life of crickets : you en- 
joy hunger by day and noise by night. Yet, I 
beseech you, for this once be not. loud, but pa- 
thetic ; for it is a serenade to a damsel in bed, and 
not to the Man in the Moon. Your object is no!: 
to arouse and terrify, but to soothe and bring lulling: 
dreams. Therefore, each shall not play upon his 
instrument as if it were the only one in the uni- 
verse, but gently, and with a certain modesty, ac- 
cording with the others. Pray, how may I call thy 
name, friend? 

FIRST MUSICIAN. 

Gerdnimo Gil, at your servicCo 

CHISPA. 

Every tub smells of the wine that is in it. Pray, 
Gerdnimo, is not Saturday an unpleasant day with 
thee? 

FIRST MUSICIAN. 

Why so ? 

CHISPA. 

Because I have heard it said that Saturday is 
an unpleasant day with those who have but one 
shirt. Moreover, I have seen thee at the tavern, 
and if thou canst run as fast as thou canst drink, 
I should like to hunt hares with thee. What in- 
strument is that ? 



The Spanish Student 193 

FIRST MUSICIAN. 

An Aragonese bagpipe. 

CHISPA. 

Pray, art thou related to the bagpiper of Bu- 
jalance, who asked a maravedi for playing, and 
ten for leaving off? 

FIRST MUSICIAN. 

No, your honor. 

CHISPA. 

I am glad of it. What other instruments have 
we? 

SECOND AND THIRD MUSICIANS. 

We play the bandurria. 

CHISPA. 

A pleasing instrument. And thou ? 

FOURTH MUSICIAN. 

The fife. 

CHISPA. 

I like it ; it has a cheerful, soul-stirring sound, 
that soars up to my lady's window like the song 
of a swallow. And you others ? 

OTHER MUSICIANS. 

We are the singers, please your honor. 

CHISPA. 

You are too many. Do you think we are going 
to sing mass in the cathedral of Cordova ? Four 
men can make but little use of one snoe, and I see 

VOL. IV. 9 M 



194 ^-^^^ Spanish Student 

not how you can all sing in one song. But follow 
me along the garden wall. That is the way my 
master climbs to the lady's window. It is by the 
Vicar's skirts that the Devil climbs into the belfry. 
Come, follow me, and make no noise. {^Exeunt. 



SCENE III. 

Preciosa's chamber. She stands at the open windaio. 
PRECIOSA. 

How slowly through the lilac-scented air 
Descends the tranquil moon ! Like thistle-down 
The vapory clouds float in the peaceful sky ; 
And sweetly from yon hollow vaults of shade 
The nightingales breathe out their souls in song. 
And hark ! what songs of love, wliat soul like 

sounds. 
Answer them from below ! 

SERENADE. 

Stars of the summer night ! 

Far in yon azure deeps, 
Hide, hide your golden light ! 

She sleeps I 
My lady sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 

Moon of the summer night ! 

Far down yon western steeps, 



The SpanisJi Siiident 195 

Sink, sink in silver light ! 

She sleeps ! 
My lady sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 

Wind of the summer night ! 

Where yonder woodbine creeps, 
Fold, fold thy pinions light ! 

She sleeps ! 
My lady sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 

Dreams of the summer night ! 

Tell her, her lover keeps 
Watch ! v^'hile in slumbers light 

She sleeps ! 
My lady sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 

{Enter Victorian by the balcony. ) 
VICTORIAN. 

Poor little dove ! Thou tremblest like a leaf! 

PRECIOSA. 

I am so frightened ! 'T is for thee I tremble ! 
I hate to have thee climb that wall by 'light ! 
Did no one see thee ? 

VICTORIAN. 

None, my lovs, but thou. 

PRECIOSA. 

T is very dangerous ; and when thou art gone 
I chide myself for letting thee come here 



196 The SpanisJi Student 

Thus stealthily by night. Where hast thou been ? 
Since yesterday I have no news from thee. 

VICTORIAN. 

Since yesterday I 've been in Alcala. 
Erelong the time will come, sweet Preciosa, 
When that dull distance shall no more divide us ; 
And I no more shall scale thy wall by night 
To steal a kiss from thee, as I do now. 

PRECIOSA. 

An honest thief, to steal but what thou givest. 

VICTORIAN. 

And we shall sit together unmolested, 

And words of true love pass from tongue to tongue, 

As singing birds from one bough to another. 

PRECIOSA. 

That were a life to make time envious ! 

I knew that thou wouldst come to me to-night. 

I saw thee at the play, 

VICTORIAN. 

Sweet child of air ! 
Never did I behold thee so attired 
And garmented in beauty as to-night ! 
What hast thou done to make thee look so fair ? 

PRECIOSA. 

Am I not always fair ? 

VICTORIAN. 

Ay, and so fair 



TJie Sj^aicish SiiLclcnt 197 

That I am jealous of all eyes that see thee, ^ 
And wish that they were blind. 

PRECIOSA. 

I heed them not ; 
When thou art present, I see none but thee ! 

VICTORIAN. 

There 's nothing fair nor beautiful, but takes 
Something from thee, that makes it beautiful. 

PRECIOSA. 

And yet thou leavest me for those dusty books. 

VICTORIAN. 

Thou comest between me and those books too 

often ! 
I see thy face in everything I see ! 
The paintings in the chapel wear thy looks. 
The canticles are changed to sarabands, 
And with the learned doctors of the schools 
I see thee dance cachuchas. 

PRECIOSA. 

In good sooth, 
I dance with learned doctors of the schools 
To-morrow morning. 

VICTORIAN. 

And with whom, I pray ? 

PRECIOSA. 

A grave and reverend Cardinal, and his Grace 
The Archbishop of Toledo. 



198 The Spanish Student 

VICTORIAN. 

What mad jest 
Is this ? 

PRECIOSA. 

It is no jest ; indeed it is not. 

VICTORIAN. 

Pritliee, explain thyself. 

PRECIOSA. 

Why, simply thus. 
Thou knowest the Pope has sent here into Spain 
To put a stop to dances on the stage. 

VICTORIAN. 

I have heard it whispered. 

PRECIOSA. 

Now the Cardinal, 
Who for this purpose comes, would fain behold 
With his own eyes these dances ; and the Arch- 
bishop 
Has sent for me — 

VICTORIAN. 

That thou may'st dance before them ! 
Now viva la cachucha ! It will breathe 
The fire of youth into these gray old men ! 
'T will be thy proudest conquest ! 

PRECIOSA. 

Saving one. 



The Spanish Student 199 

And yet I fear these dances will be stopped, 
And Preciosa be once more a beggar. 

VICTORIAN. 

The sweetest beggar that e'er asked for alms ; 
With such beseeching eyes, that when I saw thee 
I gave my heart away ! 

PRECIOSA. 

Dost thou remember 
When first we met ? 

VICTORIAN. 

It was at Cordova, 
In the cathedral garden. Thou wast sitting 
Under the orange-trees, beside a fountain. 

PRECIOSA. 

'T was Easter-Sunday. The full-blossomed trees 
Filled all the air with fragrance and with joy. 
The priests were singing, and the organ sounded, 
And then anon the great cathedral bell. 
It was the elevation of the Host. 
We both of us fell down upon our knees, 
Under the orange boughs, and prayed together. 
I never had been happy till that moment. 

VICTORIAN. 

Thou blessed angel ! 

PRECIOSA. 

And when thou wast gone 
I felt an aching here. I did not speak 



200 The Spanish Student 

To any one that clay. But from that day 
Bartolome grew hateful unto me. 

VICTORIAN. 

Remember him no more. Let not his shadow 
Come between thee and me. Sweet Preciosa ! 
I loved thee even then, though I was silent ! 

PRECIOSA. 

I thought I ne'er should see thy face again. 
Thy farewell. had a sound of sorrow in it. 

VICTORIAN. 

That was the first sound in the song of love ! 
Scarce more than silence is, and yet a sound. 
Hands of invisible spirits touch the strings 
Of that mysterious instrument, the soul, 
And play the prelude of our fate. We hear 
The voice prophetic, and are not alone. 

PRECIOSA. 

That is my faith. Dost thou believe these warn- 
ings? 

VICTORIAN. 

So far as this. Our feelings and our thoughts 
Tend ever on, and rest not in the Present. 
As drops of rain fall into some dark well, 
And from below comes a scarce audible sound, 
So fall our thoughts into the dark Hereafter, 
And their mysterious echo reaches us. 



The Spanish Student 201 

PRECIOSA. 

I have felt it so, but found no words to say it ! 
I cannot reason ; I can only feel ! 
But thou hast language for all thoughts and feel- 
ings. 
Thou art a scholar ; and sometimes I think 
We cannot walk together in this world ! 
The distance that divides us is too great ! 
Henceforth thy pathway lies among the stars ; 
I must not hold thee back. 

VICTORIAN. 

Thou little sceptic ! 
Dost thou still doubt? What I most prize in 

woman 
Is her affections, not her intellect ! 
The intellect is finite ; but the affections 
Are infinite, and cannot be exhausted. 
Compare me with the great men of the earth \ 
What am I ? Why, a pygmy among giants ! 
But if thou lovest, — mark me ! I say lovest, 
The greatest of thy sex excels thee not ! 
The world of the affections is thy world, 
Not that of man's ambition. In that stillness 
Which most becomes a woman, calm and holy, 
Thou sittest by the fireside of the heart, 
Feeding its flame. The element of fire 
Is pure. It cannot change nor hide its nature, 
But burns as brightly in a Gypsy camp 
As in a palace hall. Art thou convinced ? 
9* 



202 The Spanish Stude7tt 

PRECIOSA. 

A Yes, that I love thee, as the good love heaven ; 
But not that I am worthy of that heaven. 
How shall I more deserve it ? 

VICTORIAN. 

Loving more. 

PRECIOSA. 

I cannot love thee more ; my heart is full. 

VICTORIAN. 

Then let it overflow, and I will drink it, 
As in the summer-time the thirsty sands 
Drink the swift waters of the Manzanares, 
And still do thirst for more. 

A WATCHMAN (/// the street). 

Ave Maria 
Purissima ! 'T is midnight and serene ! 

VICTORIAN. 

Hear'st thou that cry 1 

PRECIOSA. 

It is a hateful sound, 
To scare thee from me ! 

VICTORIAN. 

As the hunter's horn 
Doth scare the timid stag, or bark of hounds 
The moor-fowl from his mate. 

PRECIOSA. 

Pray, do not go ! 



The Spanish Student 203 

VICTORIAN. 

I must away to Alcala to-night. 
Think of me when I am away. 

PRECIOSA. 

Fear not ! 
I have no thoughts that do not think of thee. 

VICTORIAN {grc'"ig her a ring). 

And to remind thee of my love, take this ; 

A serpent, emblem of Eternity ; 

A ruby, — say, a drop of my heart's blood. 

PRECIOSA. 

It is an ancient saying, that the ruby 
Brings gladness to the wearer, and preser\^es 
The heart pure, and, if laid beneath the pillow, 
Drives away evil dreams. But then, alas ! 
It was a serpent tempted Eve to sin. 

VICTORIAN. 

What convent of barefooted Carmelites 
Taught thee so much theology ? 

PRECIOSA [laving her hand upon his mouth). 

Hush! Hush! 
Good night ! and may all holy angels guard thee ! 

, VICTORIAN. 

Good night ! good night ! Thou art my guardian 

angel ! 
I have no other saint than thou to pray to ! 

[He descends h' the bnlroiv.) 



204 Thv Spanish Student 

PRECIOSA. 

Take care, and do not hurt thee. Art thou safe ? 

VICTORIAN [from the gardt'ji). 

Safe as my love for thee ! But art thou safe ? 
Others can chmb a balcony by moonlight 
As well as I. Pray shut thy window close ; 
I am jealous of the perfumed air of night 
That from this garden climbs to kiss thy lips. 

PRECIOSA {throioing doivn her handkerchief). 

Thou silly child ! Take this to blind thine eyes. 
It is my benison ! 

VICTORIAN. 

And brings to me 
Sweet fragrance from thy lips, as the soft wind 
Wafts to the out-bound mariner the breath 
Of the beloved land he leaves behind. 

PRECIOSA. 

Make not thy voyage long. 

VICTORIAN. 

To-morrow night 
Shall see me safe returned. Thou art the star 
To guide me to an anchorage. Good night ! 
My beauteous star ! My star of love, good night ! 

PRECIOSA. 

Good night ! 

WATCHMAN {at a distance). 

Ave Maria Purissima ! 



The Spanish Student 205 

SCENE IV. 

dn inn on the road to AlcaUL Baltasar asleep on a 
beiich. Enter CHisrA. 

CHISPA. 

And here we are, half way to Alcala, between 
cocks and midnight. Body o' me ! what an inn 
this is ! The Ughts out, and the landlord asleep. 
Hola ! ancient Baltasar ! 

BALTASAR [tvaking). 

Here I am. 

CHISPA. 

Yes, there you are, like a one-eyed Alcalde in 
a town without inhabitants. Bring a light, and 
let me have supper. 

BALTASAR. 

Where is your master ? 

CHISPA. 

Do not trouble yourself about him. We have 
stopped a moment to breathe our horses; and, 
if he chooses to walk up and down in the open 
air, looking into the sky as one who hears it rain, 
that does not satisfy my hunger, you know. But 
be quick, for I am in " a hurry, and eveiy man 
stretches his legs according to the length of his 
coverlet. What have we here ? 



2o6 The Spanish Student 

BALTASAR (setting a light on the table). 

Stewed rabbit. 

CHISPA [eating). 

Conscience of Portalegre ! Stewed kitten, you 
mean ! 

BALTASAR. 

And a pitcher of Pedro Ximenes, with a roasted 
pear in it. 

CHISPA [drinking). 

Ancient Baltasar, amigo ! You know how to 
cry wine and sell vinegar. I tell you this is noth- 
ing but Vino Tinto of La Mancha, wdth a tang 
of the swine-skin. 

BALTASAR. 

I swear to you by Saint Simon and Judas, it is 
all as I say. 

CHISPA. 

And I swear to you by Saint Peter and Saint 
Paul, that it is no such thing. Moreover, your 
supper is like the hidalgo's dinner, very little meat 
and a great deal of table-cloth. 

BALTASAR. 

Ha! ha. ha! 

CHISPA. 

And more noise than nuts. 

BALTASAR. 

Ha ! ha ! ha ! You must have your joke, Mas- 



The Spanish Sticdent 207 

ter Chispa. But shall I not ask Don Victorian in, 
to take a draught of the Pedro Ximenes ? 

CHISPA. 

No ; you might as well say, " Don't-you-want- 
some ? " to a dead man. 

BALTASAR. 

Why does he go so often to Madrid .'' 

CHISPA. 

For the same reason that he eats no supper. 
He is in love. Were you ever in love, Baltasar? 

BALTASAR. 

I was never out of it, good Chispa. It has been 
the torment of my life. 

CHISPA. 

What! are you on fire, too, old hay-stack? 
Why, we shall never be able to put you out. 

VICTORIAN [without). 

Chispa ! 

CHISPA. 

Go to bed, Pero Grullo, for the cocks are crow- 
ing. 

VICTORIAN. 

Ea ! Chispa ! Chispa ! 

CHISPA. 

Ea ! Senor. Come with me, ancient Baltasai, 



208 The Spanish Student 

and bring water for the horses. I will pay for the 
supper to-morrow. \_Exeunt. 

SCENE V. 

Victorian's chambers at Alcald. Hypolito asleep in an 
arm-chair. He azvakes slcnoly. 

HYPOLITO. 

I must have been asleep ! ay, sound asleep ! 
And it was all a dream. O sleep, sweet sleep ! 
Whatever form thou takest, thou art fair, 
Holding unto our lips thy goblet filled 
Out of Oblivion's well, a healing draught ! 
The candles have burned low ; it must be late. 
Where can Victorian be ? Like Fray Carrillo, 
The only place in which one cannot find him 
Is his own cell. Here 's his guitar, that seldom 
Feels the caresses of its master's hand. 
Open thy silent lips, sweet instrument ! 
And make dull midnight merry with a song. 

{He plays and sings. ) 

Padre Francisco ! 
Padre Erancisco ! 
What do you want of Padre Francisco ? 
Here is a pretty yoving maiden 
Who wants to confess her sins 1 
Open the door and let her come in, 
I will shrive her from every sin. 

{Enter Victorian.) 



The Spanish Studcit 203 

VICTORIAN. 

Padre Hypolito ! Padre Hypolito ! 

HYPOLITO. 

What do you want of Padre Hypolito ? 

VICTORIAN. 

Come, shrive me straight ; for, if love be a sin, 
I am the greatest sinner that doth live. 
I will confess the sweetest of all crimes, 
A maiden wooed and won. 

HYPOLITO. 

The same old tale 
Of the old woman in the chimney corner, 
Who, while the pot boils, says, " Come here, my 

child ; 
I '11 tell thee a story of my wedding-day." 

VICTORIAN. 

Nay, listen, for my heart is full ; so full 
That I must speak. 

HYPOLITO. 

Alas ! that heart of thine 
Is like a scene in the old play ; the curtain 
Rises to solemn music, and lo ! enter 
The eleven thousand virgins of Cologne ! 

VICTORIAN. 

Nay, like the Sibyl's volumes, thou shouldst say ; 
Those that remained, after the six were burned. 



210 TJie Spanish Student 

Being held more precious than the nine together. 
Bat hsten to my tale. Dost thou remember 
The Gypsy girl we saw at Cordova 
Oance the Romalis in the market-place? 

HYPOLITO. 

Thou meanest Preciosa. 

VICTORIAN. 

Ay, the same. 
Thou knowest how her image haunted me 
Long after we returned to Alcald. 
She 's in Madrid. 

. HYPOLITO. 

I know it. 



VICTORIAN. 



And I 'm in love. 



HYPOLITO. 

And therefore in Madrid when thou shouldst be 
In Alcala. 

• VICTORIAN. 

O pardon me, my friend, 
If I so long have kept this secret from thee ; 
But silence is the charm that guards such treasures, 
And, if a word be spoken ere the time, 
They sink again, they were not meant for us. 

HYPOLITO. 

Alas ! alas ! I see thou art in love. 



The Spanish Student 2 1 1 

Love keeps the cold out better than a cloak. 

It serves for food and raiment. Give a Spaniard 

His mass, his olla, and his Dona Luisa, — 

Thou knowest the proverb. But pray tell me, 

lover, 
How speeds thy wooing ? Is the maiden coy ? 
Write her a song, beginning with an Ave ; 
Sing as the monk sang to the Virgin Mary, 

Ave ! aijus c ale em dare 
Nee eentenni eommendare 
Sciret Seraph studio ! 

VICTORIAN. 

Pray, do not jest ! This is no time for it ! 
I am in earnest ! 

HYPOLITO. 

Seriously enamored ? 
What, ho ! The Primus of great Alcala 
Enamored of a Gypsy ? Tell me frankly, 
How meanest thou ? 

VICTORIAN. 

I mean it honestly. 

HYPOLITO. 

Surely thou wilt not marry her ! 

VICTORIAN, 

Why not ? 

HYPOLITO. 

She was betrothed to one Bartolome, 



212 TJie Spanish Stitdcnt 

If I remember rightly, a young Gypsy 
Who danced with her at Cordova. 

VICTORIAN. 

They quarrelled, 
And so the matter ended. 

HYPOLITO. 

But in truth 
Thou wilt not marry her. 

VICTORIAN. 

In truth I will. 
The angels sang in heaven when she was born ! 
She is a precious jewel I have found 
Among the filth and rubbish of the world. 
I '11 stoop for it ; but when I wear it here, 
Set on my forehead like the morning star, 
The world may wonder, but it will not laugh. 

FIYPOLITO. 

If thou wear'st nothing else upon thy forehead, 
'T will be indeed a wonder. 

VICTORIAN. 

Out upon thee 
With thy unseasonable jests ! Pray tell me, 
Is there no virtue in the world t 

HYPOLITO. 

Not much. 
What, think'st thou, is she doing at this moment ; 
Now, while we speak of her? 



The SpanisJi Student 213 

VICTORIAN. 

She lies asleep, 
And from her parted lips her gentle breath 
Comes like the fragrance from the lips of flowers. 
Her tender limbs are still, and on her breast 
The cross she prayed to, ere she fell asleep, 
Rises and falls with the soft tide of dreams, 
Like a light barge safe moored. 

HYPOLITO. 

Which means, in prose, 
She 's sleeping with her mouth a little open ! 

VICTORIAN. 

O, would I had the old magician's glass 
To see her as she lies in child-like sleep i 

HYPOLITO. 

And wouldst thou venture ? 

VICTORIAN. 

Ay, indeed I would ! 

HYPOLITO. 

Thou art courageous. Hast thou e'er reflected 
How much lies hidden in that one word, now / 

VICTORIAN. 

Yes ; all the awful mystery of Life ! 

I oft have thought, my dear Hypolito, 

That could we, by some spell of magic, change 

The world and its inhabitants to stone, 

In the same attitudes they now are in, 



214 Tf^^ Spanish Student 

What fearful glances downward might we cast 

Into the hollow chasms of human life ! 

What groups should we behold about the death-bed, 

Putting to shame the groujD of Niobe ! 

What joyful welcomes, and what sad farewells ! 

What stony tears in those congealed eyes ! 

What visible joy or anguish in those cheeks ! 

AVhat bridal pomps, and what funereal shows ! 

What foes, like gladiators, fierce and struggling ! 

What lovers with their marble lips together ! 

HYPOLITO. 

Ay, there it is ! and, if I were in love, 

That is the very point I most should dread. 

This magic glass, these magic spells of thine, 

Might tell a tale were better left untold. 

For instance, they might show us thy fair cousin. 

The Lady Violante, bathed in tears 

Of love and anger, like the maid of Colchis, 

Whom thou, another faithless Argonaut, 

Having won that golden fleece, a woman's love, 

Desertest for this Glauce. 

VICTORIAN. 

Hold thy peace ! 
She cares not for me. She may wed another, 
Or go into a convent, and, thus dying, 
JMarry Achilles in the Elysian Fields. 

HYPOLITO [rising). 

And so, good night ! Good morning, I should say. 



The Spanish Student 215 

{Clock strikes three.) 
Hark ! how the loud and ponderous mace of Time 
Knocks at the goklen portals of the day ! 
And so, once more, good night ! We '11 speak 

more largely 
Of Preciosa when we meet again. 
Get thee to bed, and the magician, Sleep, 
Shall show her to thee, in his magic glass, 
In all her loveliness. Good night ! {^Exit. 

VICTORIAN. 

Good night ! 
But not to bed ; for I must read awhile. 

{Throivs himself into the arm-chair luhich Hypolito has left^ 
ajid lays a large book open upon his knees.) 

Must read, or sit in reverie and watch 

The changing color of the waves that break 

Upon the idle sea-shore of the mind ! 

Visions of Fame ! that once did visit me, 

Making night glorious with your smile, where are 

ye? 
Q, who shall give me, now that ye are gone. 
Juices of those immortal plants that bloom 
Upon Olympus, making us immortal ? 
Or teach me where that wondrous mandrake grows 
Whose magic root, torn from the earth with groans. 
At midnight hour, can scare the fiends away. 
And make the mind prolific in its fancies ? 
I have the wish, but want the will, to act ! 



2i6 TJie Spa J I is /r Student 

Souls of great men departed ! Ye whose words 

Have come to light from the swift river of Time, 

Like Roman swords found in the Tagus' bed, 

Where is the strength to wield the arms ye bore ? 

From the barred visor of Antiquity 

Reflected shines the eternal light of Truth, 

As from a mirror ! All the means of action — 

The shapeless masses, the materials — 

Lie everywhere about us. What we need 

Is the celestial fire to change the flint 

Into transparent crystal, bright and clear. 

That fire is genius ! The rude peasant sits 

At evening in his smoky cot, and draws 

With charcoal uncouth figures on the wall. 

The son of genius comes, foot-sore with travel, 

And begs a shelter from the inclement night. 

He takes the charcoal from the peasant's hand, 

And, by the magic of his touch at once 

Transfigured, all its hidden virtues shine. 

And, in the eyes of the astonished clown, 

It gbams a diamond ! Even thus transformed. 

Rude jDopular traditions and old tales 

Shine as immortal poems, at the touch 

Of some poor, houseless, homeless, wandering bard. 

Who had but a night's lodging for his pains. 

But there are brighter dreams than those of Fame, 

AVhich are the dreams of Love ! Out of the heart 

Rises the bright ideal of these dreams, 

As from some woodland fount a spirit rises 



The Spanish Student 21/ 

And sinks again into its silent deeps, 

Ere the enamored knight can touch her robe ! 

'T is this ideal that the soul of man, 

Like the enamored knight beside the fountain, 

Waits for upon the margin of Life's stream ; 

Waits to behold her rise from the dark waters, 

Clad in a mortal shape ! Alas ! how many 

Must wait in vain ! The stream flows evermore, 

But from its silent deeps no spirit rises ! 

Yet I, born under a propitious star, 

Have found the bright ideal of my dreams. 

Yes ! she is ever with me. I can feel. 

Here, as I sit at midnight and alone, 

Her gentle breathing ! on my breast can feel 

The pressure of her head ! God's benison 

Rest ever on it ! Close those beauteous eyes. 

Sweet Sleep ! and all the flowers that bloom at 

night 
With balmy lips breathe in her ears my name 1 
[Gradually sinks asleep.) 



2i8 The Spanish Sttideiit 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. Preciosa's chamber. Morning. Preciosa and 

Angelica. 

PRECIOSA. 

WHY will you go so soon ? Stay yet awhile. 
The poor too often turn away unheard 
From hearts that shut against them with a sound 
That will be heard in heaven. Pray, tell me more 
Of your adversities. Keep nothing from me. 
What is your landlord's name ? 



angelica. 

The Count of Lara. 

PRECIOSA. 

The Count of Lara ? O, beware that man ! 
Mistrust his pity, — hold no parley with him ! 
And rather die an outcast in the streets 
Than touch his gold. 

ANGELICA. 

You know him, then ! 

PRECIOSA. 

As much 
As any woman may, and yet be pure. 
As you would keep your name without a blemish. 
Beware of him ! 



The Spanish Student 219 

ANCxELICA. 

Alas ! what can I do ? 
I cannot choose my friends. Each word of kind- 
ness, 
Come whence it may, is welcome to the poor. 

PRECIOSA. 

Make me your friend. A girl so young and fair 
Should have no friends but those of her own sex. 
What is your name ? 

ANGELICA. 

Angelica. 

PRECIOSA. 

That name 
Was given you, that you might be an angel 
To her who bore you ! When your infant smile 
Made her home Paradise, you were her angel. 
O, be an angel still ! She needs that smile. 
So long as you are innocent, fear nothing. 
No one can harm you ! I am a poor girl, 
Whom chance has taken from the public streets. 
I have no other shield than mine own virtue. 
That is the charm which has protected me ! 
Amid a thousand perils, I have worn it 
Here on my heart ! It is my guardian angel. 

ANGELICA [rising). 

I thank you for this counsel, dearest lady. 



220 TJie Spanish Student 

PRECIOSA. 

Thank me by following it. 

ANGELICA. 

Indeed I will. 

PRECIOSA. 

Pray, do not go. I have much more to say. 

ANGELICA. 

My mother is alone. I dare not leave her. 

PRECIOSA. 

Some other time, then, when we meet again. 
You must not go away with words alone. 

( Gives her a purse. ) 

Take this. Would it were more. 

ANGELICA. 

I thank you, lady. 

PRECIOSA. 

No thanks. To-morrow come to me again. 
I dance to-night, — perhaps for the last time. 
But what I gain, I promise shall be yours. 
If that can save you from the Count of Lara. 

ANGELICA. 

O, my dear lady ! how shall I be grateful 
For so much kindness ? 

PRECIOSA. 

I desen^e no thanks. 
Thank Heaven, not me. 



The Spanish Student 221 

ANGELICA. 

Both Heaven and you. 

PRECIOSA. 

Farewell. 
Remember that you come again to-morrow. 

ANGELICA. 

I will. And may the Blessed Virgin guard you. 
And all good angels. \Exit. 

PRECIOSA. 

May they guard thee too, 
And all the poor ; for they have need of angels. 
Now bring me, dear Dolores, my basquina, 
My richest maja dress, — my dancing dress. 
And my most precious jewels ! Make me look 
Fairer than night e'er saw me ! I 've a prize 
To win this day, worthy of Preciosa ! 
[Enter Beltran Cruzado.) 

CRUZADO. 

Ave Maria ! 

PRECIOSA. 

O God ! my evil genius ! 
What seekest thou here to-day ? 

CRUZADO. 

Thyself, — my child. 

PRECIOSA. 

What is thy will with me ? 



222 The Spanish Student 

CRUZADO. 

Gold! gold! 

PRECIOSA. 

I gave thee yesterday ; I have no more. 

CRUZADO. 

The gold of the Busne', — give me his gold I 

PRECIOSA. 

I gave the last in charity to-day. 

CRUZADO. 

That is a foolish lie. 

PRECIOSA. 

It is the truth. 

CRUZADO. 

Curses upon thee ! Thou art not my child ! 
Hast thou given gold away, and not to me ? 
Not to thy father ? To whom, then ? 

PRECIOSA. 

To one 
Who needs it more. 

CRUZADO. 

No one can need it more. 

PRECIOSA. 

Thou art not poor. 

CRUZADO. 

What, I, who lurk about 
(n- dismal suburbs and unwholesome lanes ; 



The Spanish Student 223 

I, who am housed worse than the galley slave ; 
I, who am fed worse than the kennelled hound ; 
I, who am clothed in rags, — Beltran Cruzado, — 
Not poor ! . 

PRECIOSA. 

Thou hast a stout heart and strong hands. 
Thou canst supply thy wants ; what wouldst thou 
more ? 

CRUZADO. 

The gold of the Busne ! give me his gold ! 

PRECIOSA. 

Beltran Cruzado ! hear me once for all. 
I speak the truth. So long as I had gold, 
I gave it to thee freely, at all times, 
Never denied thee ; never had a wish 
But to fulfil thine own. Now go in peace ! 
Be merciful, be patient, and erelong 
Thou shalt have more. 

CRUZADO. 

And if I have it not. 
Thou shalt no longer dwell here in rich chambers, 
Wear silken dresses, feed on dainty food, 
And live in idleness ; but go with me. 
Dance the Romalis in the public streets. 
And wander wild again o'er field and fell ; 
For here we stay not long. 

PRECIOSA. 

What ! march again } 



224 '^^^^ SpmiisJi Student 

CRUZADO. 

Ay, with all speed. I hate the crowded town ! 
I cannot breathe shut up within its gates ! 
Air, — I want air, and sunshine, and blue sky, 
The feeling of the breeze upon my face, 
The feeling of the turf beneath my feet, 
And no walls but the far-off mountain-tops. 
Then I am free and strong, — once more myself, 
Beltran Cruzado, Count of the Cales ! 

PRECIOSA. 

God speed thee on thy march ! — I cannot go. 

CRUZADO. 

Remember who I am, and who thou art ! 
Be silent and obey ! Yet one thing more. 
Bartolome Roman 

PRECIOSA {ivith emotion). 

O, I beseech thee ! 
If my obedience and blameless hfe, 
If my humility and meek submission 
In all things hitherto, can move in thee 
One feeling of compassion ; if thou art 
Indeed my father, and canst trace in me 
One look of her who bore me, or one tone 
That doth remind thee of her, let it plead 
In my behalf, who am a feeble girl. 
Too feeble to resist, and do not force me 
To wed that man ! I am afraid of him ! 



The Spanish Student 225 

I do not love him ! On my knees I beg thee 
To use no violence, nor do in haste 
What cannot be undone ! 

CRUZADO. 

O child, child, child ! 
Thou hast betrayed thy secret, as a bird 
Betrays her nest, by striving to conceal it. 
I will not leave thee here in the great city 
To be a grandee's mistress. Make thee ready 
To go with us ; and until then remember 
A watchful eye is on thee. lExH. 

PRECIOSA. 

Woe is me ! 
I have a strange misgiving in my heart ! 
But that one deed of charity I '11 do, 
Befall what may ; they cannot take that from me. 

yExit. 

SCENE 11. 

A room in the Archbishop's Palace. The Archbishop 
and a Cardinal seated. 

ARCHBISHOP. 

Knowing how near it touched the public morals, 
And that our age is grown corrupt and rotten 
By such excesses, we have sent to Rome, 
Beseeching that his Holiness would aid 
In curing the gross surfeit of the time, 

VOL. IV. 10* o 



226 TJie Spa? lis /i Stitdent 

By seasonable stop put here in Spain 

To bull-fights and lewd dances on the stage. 

All this you know. 

CARDINAL. 

Know and approve. 

ARCHBISHOP. 

And farther, 
That, by a mandate from his Holiness, 
The first have been suppressed. 

CARDINAL. 

I trust forever, 
It was a cruel sport. 

ARCHBISHOP. 

A barbarous pastime, 
Disgraceful to the land that calls itself 
Most Catholic and Christian. 

CARDINAL. 

Yet the people 
Murmur at this ; and, if the public dances 
Should be condemned upon too slight occasion. 
Worse ills might follow than the ills we cure. 
As Panem et Circeiises was the cry 
Among the Roman populace of old. 
So Pan y Toros is the cry in Spain. 
Hence I would act advisedly herein ; 
And therefore have induced your grace to see 
These national dances, ere we interdict them. 

{Enter a Servant.) 



The Spanish Stitdcnt 227 

SERVANT. 

The dancing-girl, and with her the musicians 
Your grace was pleased to order, wait without. 

ARCHBISHOP. 

Bid them come in. Now shall your eyes behold 
In what angelic yet voluptuous shape 
The Devil came to tempt Saint Anthony. 

{Enter Preciosa, with a mantle tJirmvi over her head. She 
advances slowly, in a modest, half-timid attitude. ) 

CARDINAL {aside). 

O, what a fair and ministering angel 

AVas lost to heaven when this sweet woman fell ! 

PRECIOSA {kneeling before the Archfjshop). 

I have obeyed the order of your grace. 
If I intrude upon your better hours, 
I proffer this excuse, and here beseech 
Your holy benediction. 

ARCHBISHOP. 

May God bless thee, 
And lead thee to a better hfe. Arise. 

CARDINAL {aside). 

Her acts are modest, and her words discreet ! 
I did not look for this ! Come hither, child. 
Is thy name Preciosa ? 

PRECIOSA. 

Thus I am called. 



228 The Spanish Student 

CARDINAL. 

That is a Gypsy name. Who is thy father ? 

PRECIOSA. 

Beltran Cruzado, Count of the Gales. 

ARCHBISHOP. 

I have a dim remembrance of that man ; 
He was a bold and reckless character, 
A sun-burnt Ishmael ! 

CARDINAL. 

Dost thou remember 
Thy earlier days ? 

PRECIOSA. 

Yes ; by the Darro's side 
My childhood passed. I can remember still 
The river, and the mountains capped with snow ; 
The villages, where, yet a little child, 
I told the traveller's fortune in the street ; 
The smuggler's horse, the brigand and the shep- 
herd ; 
The march across the moor ; the halt at noon ; 
The red fire of the evening camp, that lighted 
The forest where we slept ; and, farther back, 
As in a dream or in some former life. 
Gardens and palace walls. 

ARCHBISHOP. 

'T is the Alhambra, 



The Spanish Student 229 

Under whose towers the Gypsy camp was pitched. 
But the time wears ; and we would see thee dance. 

PRECIOSA. 

Your grace shall be obeyed. 

[She lays aside her mantilla. The music of the cachiicha is 
played^ and the dance begins. The Archbishop and the 
Cardinal hwk on with grav.'.y and an occasional fro-un ; 
then make signs to each other ; and., as the dance continues, 
become jnore and more pleased and excited ; and at length 
rise from their seats, tJu'ow their caps in the air, and ap- 
plaud vehemently as the scene closes. ) 



SCENE III. 

The Prado. A long avenue of trees leading to the gate of Ato- 
cha. On the right the dome and spires of a convent. A 
fountain. Evening. Don Carlos and Mypolito meet- 
ing. 

DON CARLOS. 

Hola ! good evening, Don Hypolito. 

HYPOLITO. 

And a good evening to my friend, Don Carlos. 
Some lucky star has led my steps this way. 
I was in search of you. 

DON CARLOS. 

Command me always. 

HYPOLITO. 

Do you remember, in Quevedo's Dreams, 



230 1 Jic Spanish Student 

The miser, who, upon the Day of Judgment 
Asks if his money-bags would rise ? 

DON CARLOS. 

I do; 
But what of that ? 

HYPOLITO. 

I am that wretched man. 

DON CARLOS. 

You mean to tell me yours have risen empty ? 

HYPOLITO. 

And amen ! said my Cid the Campeador. 

DON CARLOS. 

Pray, how much need you ? 

HYPOLITO. 

Some half-dozen ounces 
Which, with due interest 

DON CARLOS [giving his pzirse). 

What, am I a Jew 
To put my moneys out at usury .'' 
Here is my purse. 

HYPOLITO. 

Thank you. A pretty purse, 
Made by the hand of some fair Madrilena ; 
Perhaps a keepsake. 

DON CARLOS. 

No, 't is at your service. 



The Spanish Student 231 

HYPOLITO. 

Thank you again. Lie there, good Chrysostom, 
And with thy golden moutn remind me often, 
I am the debtor of my friend. 

DON CARLOS. 

But tell me, 
Come you to-day from Alcala ? 

HYPOLITO. 

This moment. 

DON CARLOS. 

And pray, how fares the brave Victorian .'* 

HYPOLITO. 

Indifferent well ; that is to say, not well. 
A damsel has ensnared him with the glances 
Of her dark, roving eyes, as herdsmen catch 
A steer of Andalusia with a lazo. 
He is in love. 

DON CARLOS. 

And is it faring ill 
To be in love ? 

HYPOLITO. 

In his case very ill. 

DON CARLOS. 
HYPOLITO. 

For many reasons. First and foremost, 



Why so ? 



232 The Spanish Student 

Because he is in love with an ideal ; 
A creature of his own imagination ; 
A child of air ; an echo of his heart ; 
And, like a lily on a river floating, 
She floats upon the river of his thoughts ! 

DON CARLOS. 

A common thing with poets. But who is 
This floating lily ? For, in fine, some woman, 
Some living woman, — not a mere ideal, — 
Must wear the outward semblance of his thought. 
Who is it ? Tell me. 

HYPOLTTO. 

Well, it is a woman ! 
But, look you, from the cofler of his heart 
He brings forth precious jewels to adorn her, 
As pious priests adorn some favorite saint 
"With gems and gold, until at length she gleams 
One blaze of glory. Without these, you know. 
And the priest's benediction, 't is a doll. 

DON CARLOS, 

Well, well ! who is this doll ? 

HYPOLITO. 

Why, who do you think ? 

DON CARLOS. 

His cousin Violante. 

HYPOLITO. 

Guess again. 



The Spanish Student 233 j 

i 

To ease his laboring heart, in the last storm | 

He threw her overboard, with all her ingots. ! 

DON CARLOS. ; 

I cannot guess ; so tell me who h is. 

HYTOLITO. j 

Not 1. : 

DON CARLOS. ^ 

Why not ? ' 
HYPOLITO {mysteriously). 

Why ? Because Mari Franca 

Was married four leagues out of Salamanca ! ^ 

DON CARLOS. 

Jesting aside, who is it ? 

HYPOLITO. ; 

Preciosa. \ 

! 

DON CARLOS. \ 

\ 

Impossible ! The Count of Lara tells me I 

She is not virtuous. i 

HYPOLITO. j 

Did I say she was ? 

The Roman Emperor Claudius had a wife \ 
Whose name was Messalina, as I think ; . | 

Valeria Messalina was her name. j 
But hist ! I see him yonder through the trees, 
Walking as in a dream. 

DON CARLOS. 

He comes this way, \ 



234 ^^^^ Spanish StiLcient 

HYPOLITO. 

It has been truly said by some wise man, 
That money, grief, and love cannot be hidden. 
{Enter Victorian in froi/L) 

VICTORIAN. 

Where'er thy step has passed is holy ground ! 
These groves are sacred ! I behold thee walking 
Under these shadowy trees, where we have walked 
At evening, and I feel thy presence now ; 
Feel that the place has taken a charm from thee, 
And is forever hallowed. 

HYPOLITO. 

Mark him well ! 
See how he strides away with lordly air, 
Like that odd guest of stone, that grim Commander 
Who comes to sup with Juan in the play. 

DON CARLOS. 

What ho ! Victorian ! 

HYPOLITO. 

Wilt thou sup with us .? 

VICTORIAN. 

Hola ! amigos ! Faith, I did not see you. 
How fares Don Carlos } 

DON CARLOS. 

At your service ever. 



The Spanish Student 235 

VICTORIAN. ■ 

How is that young and green-eyed Gaditana 
That you both wot of? 

DON CARLOS. 

Ay, soft, emerald eyes ! 
She has gone back to Cadiz. 

HYPOLITO. 

Ay de mi ! 

VICTORIAN. 

You are much to blame for letting her go back. 
A pretty girl ; and in her tender eyes 
Just that soft shade of green we sometimes see 
In evening skies. 

HYPOLITO. 

But, speaking of green eyes, 
Are thine green ? 

VICTORIAN. 

Not a whit. Why so ? 

HYPOLITO. 

I think 
The slightest shade of green would be becoming, 
For thou art jealous. 

VICTORIAN. 

No, I am not jealous. 

HYPOLITO. 

Thou shouldst be. 



236 The Spanish Student 

VICTORIAN. 

Why? 

HYPOLITO. 

Because thou art in love. 
And they who are in love are always jealous. 
Therefore thou shouldst be. 

VICTORIAN. 

Marry, is that all ? 
Farewell ; I am in haste. Farewell, Don Carlos. 
Thou sayest I should be jealous ? 

HYPOLITO. 

Ay, in truth 
I fear there is reason. Be upon thy guard. 
I hear it whispered that the Count of Lara 
Lays siege to the same citadel. 

VICTORIAN. 

Indeed ! 
Then he will have his labor for his pains. 

HYPOLITO. 

He does not think so, and Don Carlos tells me 
He boasts of his success. 

VICTORIAN. 

How 's this, Don Carlos } 

DON CARLOS. 

Some hints of it I heard from his own lips. 
He spoke but lightly of the lady's virtue, 
As a gay man might speak. 



The Spanish Student 237 

VICTORIAN. 

Death and damnation ! 
I '11 cut his lying tongue out of his mouth, 
And throw it to my dog ! But no, no, no ! 
This cannot be. You jest, indeed you jest. 
Trifle with me no more. For otherwise 
We are no longer friends. And so, farewell ! 

{^Exit 
HYPOLITO. 

Now what a coil is here ! The Avenging Child 

Hunting the traitor Quadros to his death, 

And the great Moor Calaynos, when he rode 

To Paris for the ears of Oliver, 

Were nothing to him ! O hot-headed youth ! 

But come ; we will not follow. Let us join 

The crowd that pours into the Prado. There 

We shall find merrier company ; I see 

The Marialonzos and the Almavivas, 

And fifty fans, that beckon me already. {^Exeunt 



SCENE IV. 

Preciosa's chamber. She is sittings with a book in her hand, 
near a table, on which are floivers. A bird singing in its 
cage. The Count of Lara enters behind unperceived. 

PRECIOSA {reads). 
All are sleeping, weary heart ! 
Thou, thou only sleepless art ! 



238 TJic Spanish Student 

Heigho ! I wish Victorian were here. 

I know not what it is makes me so restless ! 

( The bird slugs. ) 

Thou little prisoner with thy motley coat, 
That from thy vaulted, wiry dungeon singest, 
Like thee I am a captive, and, like thee, 
I have a gentle jailer. Lack-a-day ! 

All are sleepinfj, weary heart ! 
Thou, thou only sleepless art ! 
All this throbbing, all this aching, 
Evermore shall keep thee waking, 
For a heart in sorrow breaking 
Thinketh ever of its smart ! 

Thou speakest truly, poet ! and methinks 
More hearts are breaking in this world of ours 
Than one would say. In distant villages 
And solitudes remote, where winds have wafted 
The barbed seeds of love, or birds of passage 
Scattered them in their flight, do they take root, 
And grow in silence, and in silence perish. 
Who hears the falling of the forest leaf? 
Or who takes note of every flower that dies ? 
Heigho ! I wish Victorian would come. 
Dolores ! 

{Turns to lay dcnun her book, and perceives the CoUNT.) 
Ha! 

LARA. 

Senora, pardon me ! 



The Spanish Student 239 



PRECIOSA. 

How 's this ? Dolores i 



LARA. 

Pardon me 

PRECIOSA. 



Dolores ! 



LARA. 

Be not alarmed ; I found no one in waiting. 
If I have been too bold 

PRECIOSA {fuming her hack upon him). 

You are too bold ! 
Retire ! retire, and leave m3 ! 

LARA. 

My dear lady, 
First hear me ! I beseech you, let me speak ! 
'T is for your good I come. 

PRECOSIA {turning toivard hiju with indignation). 

Begone ! Begone ! 
You are the Count of Lara, but your deeds 
Would make the statues of your ancestors 
Blush on their tombs ! Is it Castilian honor, 
Is it Castilian pride, to steal in here 
Upon a friendless girl, to do her wrong ? 
O shime ! shame ! shame ! that you, a nobleman. 
Should be so little noble fn your thoughts 
As to send jewels here to win my love. 
And think to buy my honor with your gold ! 



240 1 he Spanish Student 

I have no words to tell you how I scorn you ! 
Begone ! The sight of you is hateful to me ! 
Begone, I say ! 

LARA. 

Be calm ; I will not harm you. 

PRECIOSA. 

Because you dare not. 

LARA. 

I dare anything ! 
Therefore beware ! . You are deceived in me. 
In this false world, we do not always know 
Who are our friends and who our enemies. 
We all have enemies, and all need friends. 
Even you, fair Preciosa, here at court 
Have foes, who seek to wrong you. 

PRECIOSA. 

If to this 
I owe the honor of the present visit, 
You might have spared the coming. Having 

spoken. 
Once more I beg you, leave me to myself 

LARA. 

I thought it but a friendly part to tell you 
What strange reports are current here in town. 
For my own self, I do not credit them ; 
But there are many who, not knowing you, 
Will lend a readier ear. 



The Spanish Student 241 

PRECIOSA. 

There was no need 
That you should take upon yourself the duty 
Of telling me these tales. 

LARA. 

Malicious tongues 
Are ever busy with your name. 

PRECIOSA. 

Alas ! 
I Ve no protectors. I am a poor girl, 
Exposed to insults and unfeeling jests. 
They wound me, yet I cannot shield myself. 
I give no cause for these reports. I live 
Retired ; am visited by none. 

LARA. 

By none .? 
O, then, indeed, you are much wronged ! 

PRECIOSA. 

How mean you .? 

^ LARA. 

Nay, nay ; I will not wound your gentle soul 
By the report of idle tales. 

PRECIOSA. 

Speak out ! 
What are these idle tales.? You need not spare 
me. 

VOL. IV. II p 



242 The Spanish Student 

LARA. 

I will deal frankly with you. Pardon me ; 

This window, as I think, looks toward thv^ street, 

And this into the Prado, does it not ? 

In yon high house, beyond the garden wall, — 

You see the roof there just above the trees, — 

There lives a friend, who told me yesterday. 

That on a certain night, — be not offended 

If I too plainly speak, — he saw a man 

Climb to your chamber window. You are silent ! 

I would not blame you, being young and fair ■ 



\^He tries to embrace her. She starts back, at id draws a dagger 
from her bosom. ) 

PRECIOSA. 

Beware ! beware ! I am a Gypsy girl ! 
.Lay not your hand upon me. One step nearer 
And I will strike ! 

LARA. 

Pray you, put up that dagger. 
Fear not. 

PRECIOSA. 

I do not fear. I have a heart 
In whose strength I can trust. 

LARA. 

Listen to me. 
I come here as your friend, — I am your friend, — 
And by a single word can put a stop 
To all those idle tales, and make your name 



The Spanish StiLdent 243 

Spotless as lilies are. Here on my knees, 
Fair Preciosa ! on my knees I swear, 
I love you even to madness, and that love 
Has driven me to break the rules of custom, 
And force myself unasked into your presence. 

(VICTORIAN enters behind.) 
PRECIOSA. 

Rise, Count of Lara ! That is not the place 
For such as you are. It becomes you not 
To kneel before me. I am strangely moved 
To see one of your rank thus low and humbled j 
For your sake I will put aside all anger, 
All unkind feeling, all dislike, and speik 
In gentleness, as most becomes a womin, 
And as my heart now prompts me. I no more 
Will hate you, for all hate is painfal to me. 
But if, without offending modesty 
And that reserve which is a woman's s^lory, 
I may speak freely, I will teach my heart 
To love you. 

LARA. 

O sweet angel ! 

PRECIOSA. 

Ay, in truth, 
Far better than you love yourself or me. 

LARA. 

Give me some sign of this, — the slightest token. 
Let me but kiss your hand ! 



244 T^'^^ Spanish Sttident 



PRECIOSA. 

Nay, come no nearer. 
The words I utter are its sign and token. 
Misunderstand me not ! Be not deceived ! 
The love wherewith I love you is not such 
As you would offer me. For you come here 
To take from me the only thing I have, 
My honor. You are wealthy, you have friends 
And kindred, and a thousand pleasant hopes 
That fill your heart with happiness ; but I 
Am poor, and friendless, having but one treasure. 
And you would take that from me, and for what ? 
To flatter your own vanity, and make me 
What you would most despise. O Sir, such love, 
That seeks to harm me, cannot be true love. 
Indeed it cannot. But my love for you 
Is of a different kind. It seeks your good. 
It is a holier feeling. It rebukes 
Your earthly passion, your unchaste desires, 
And bids you look into your heart, and see 
How you do wrong that better nature in you, 
And grieve your soul with sin. 

LARA. 

I swear to you, 
I would, not harm you ; I would only love you. 
I would not take your honor, but restore it. 
And in return I ask but some slight mark 
Of your affection. If indeed von love me. 



The Spanish Student 245 

As you confess you do, O let me thus 
With this embrace 

VICTORIAN {rushing forzvard). 

Hold ! hold ! This is too much. 
What means this outrao:e ? 

LARA. 

First, what right have you 
To question thus a nobleman of Spain ? 

VICTORIAN. 

I too am noble, and you are no more ! 
Out of my sight ! 

LARA. 

Are you the master here ? 

VICTORIAN. 

Ay, here and elsewhere, when the wrong of others 
Gives me the right ! 

PRECIOSA [to LARA). 

Go ! I beseech you, go ! 

VICTORIAN. 

I shall have business with you. Count, anon ! 

LARA. 

You cannot come too soon ! {Exit. 

PRECIOSA. 

Victorian ! 
O we ha-^^e been betrayed ! 



246 TJie Spanish Student 

VICTORIAN. 

Ha ! ha ! betrayed ! 
'T is I have been betrayed, not we ! — not we ! 



PRECIOSA. 



Dost thou imagine 



VICTORIAN. 

I imagine nothing ; 
I see how 't is thou whilest the time away 
When I am gone ! 

PRECIOSA. 

O speak not in that tone ! 
It wounds me deeply. 

VICTORIAN. 

'T was not meant to flatter. 

PRECIOSA. 

Too well thou knowest the presence of that man 
Is hateful to me ! 

VICTORIAN. 

Yet I saw thee stand 
And listen to him, when he told his love. 

PRECIOSA. 

I did not heed his words. 

VICTORIAN. 

Indeed thou didst, 
And answeredst them with love. 



The Spanish Student 247 

PRECIOSA. 

Hadst thou heard all 



I heard enough. 



VICTORIAN. 
PRECIOSA. 

Be not so angry with me. 

VICTORIAN. 

I am not angry ; I am very calm. 

PRECIOSA. 

If thou wilt let me speak 

VICTORIAN. 

Nay, say no more. 
I know too much already. Thou art false ! 
I do not like these Gypsy marriages ! 
Where is the ring I gave thee .-* 

PRECIOSA. 

In my casket. 

VICTORIAN. 

There let it rest ! I would not have thee wear it : 
I thought thee spotless, and thou art polluted ! 

PRECIOSA. 

I call the Heavens to witness 



VICTORIAN. 

Nay, nay, nay ! 
Take not the name of Heaven upon thy lips ! 
Thev are forsworn ! 



248 The Spanish Student 

PRECIOSA. 

Victorian ! dear Victorian ! 

VICTORIAN. 

I gave up all for thee \ myself, my fame, 
My hopes of fortune, ay, my very soul ! 
And thou hast been my ruin ! Now, go on ! 
Laugh at my folly with thy paramour, 
And, sitting on the Count of Lara's knee, 
Say what a poor, fond fool Victorian was ! 

{He casts her from Jiiin and rushes out. ) 
PRECIOSA. 

And this from thee ! 

{Scene closes. ) 



SCENE V. 

The Count of Lara's rooms. Enter the Count. 

LARA. 

There 's nothing in this world so sweet as love, 
And next to love the sweetest thing is hate ! 
I Ve learned to hate, and therefore am revenged. 
A silly girl to play the prude wdth me ! 

The fire that I have kindled 

{Enter Francisco.) 

Well, Francisco, 
What tidings from Don Juan ? 



The Spanish Student 249 

FRANCISCO. 

Good, my lord ; 
He will be present. 

LARA. 

And the Duke of Lermos 1 



Was not at home. 



FRANCISCO. 
LARA. 

How with the rest t 



FRANCISCO. 

I 've found 
The men you wanted. They will all be there, 
And at the given signal raise a whirlwind 
Of such discordant noises, that the dance 
Must cease for lack of music. 

LARA. 

Bravely done. 
Ah ! little dost thou dream, sweet Preciosa, 
What lies in wait for thee. Sleep shall not close 
Thine eyes this night ! Give me my cloak and 
sword. {Exeunt. 



SCENE VI. 

A retired spot beyond the city gates. Enter Victorian and 
Hypolito. 

VICTORIAN. 

O shame ! O shame ! Why do I walk abroad 



250 The SpanisJi Student 

By daylight, when the very sunshine mocks me, 
And voices, and famihar sights and sounds 
Cry, " Hide thyself ! " O what a thin partition 
Doth shut out from the curious world the knowl- 
edge 
Of evil deeds that have been done in darkness ! 
Disgrace has many tongues. My fears are win- 
dows, 
Through which all eyes seem gazing. Every face 
Expresses some suspicion of my shame, 
And in derision seems to smile at me ! 

HYPO LI TO. 

Did I not caution thee ? Did I not tell thee 
I was but half persuaded of her virtue ? 

VICTORIAN. 

And yet, Hypolito, we may be wrong, 
We may be over-hasty in condemning ! 
The Count of Lara is a cursed villain. 

HYPOLITO. 

And therefore is she cursed, loving him. 

VICTORIAN. 

She does not love him ! 'T is for gold ! for gold ! 

HYPOLITO. 

Ay, but remember, in the public streets 

He shows a golden ring the Gypsy gave him, 

A serpent with a ruby in its mouth. 



The Spanish Student 251 

VICTORIAN. 

She had that ring from me ! God ! she is false ! 
But I will be revenged ! The hour is passed. 
Where stays the coward .'' 

HYPOLITO. 

Nay, he is no coward ; 
A villain, if thou wilt, but not a coward. 
I 've seen him play with swords ; it is his pastime. 
And therefore be not over-confident. 
He '11 task thy skill anon. Look, here he comes. 
{Enter \uh.'^k^ followed by Francisco.) 

LARA. 

Good evening, gentlemen. 

HYPOLITO. 

Good evening, Count. 

LARA. 

I trust I have not kept you long in waiting. 

VICTORIAN. 

Not long, and yet too long. Are you prepared ? 

LARA. 

I am. 

HYPOLITO. 

It grieves me much to see this quarrel 
Between you, gentlemen. Is there no way 
Left open to accord this difference, 
But you must mqke one with your swords ? 



252 The Spanish Strident 

VICTORIAN. 

No ! none ! 
I do entreat thee, dear Hypolito, 
Stand not between me and my foe. Too long 
Our tongues have spoken. Let these tongues of 

steel 
End our debate. Upon your guard, Sir Count ! 

( They fight. Victorian disarms the Count.) 

Your life is mine ; and what shall now withhold me 
From sending your vile soul to its account t 

LARA. 

Strike ! strike ! 

VICTORIAN. 

You are disarmed. I will not kill you. 
I will not murder you. Take up your sword. 

(Francisco hands the Count his sword, and Hypolito 
interposes. ) 

HYPOLITO. 

Enough ! Let it end here ! The Count of Lara 
Has shown himself a brave man, and Victorian 
A generous one, as ever. Now be friends. 
Put up 3^our swords ; for, to speak frankly to you, 
Your cause of quarrel is too slight a thing 
To move you to extremes. 

LARA. 

I am content. 



The Spanish Student 253 

I sought no quarrel. A few hasty words, 
Spoken in the heat of blood, have led to this. 

VICTORIAN. 

Nay, something more than that. 

LARA. 

I understand you. 
Therein 1 did not mean to cross your path. 
To me the door stood open, as to others. 
But, had I known the girl belonged to you, 
Never would I have sought to win her from you. 
The truth stands now revealed ; she has been false 
To both of us. 

VICTORIAN. 

Ay, false as hell itself! 

LARA. 

In truth, I did not seek her ; she sought me ; 
And told me how to win her, telling me 
The hours when she was oftenest left alone. 

VICTORIAN. 

Say, can you prove this to me ? O, pluck out 
These awful doubts, that goad me into madness ! 
Let me know all ! all ! all ! 

LARA. 

You shall know all. 
Here is my page, who was the messenger 
Between us. Question him. Was it not so, 
Francisco ? 



254 T^^^ Spanish Student 

FRANCISCO. 

Ay, my lord. 

LARA. 

If farther proof 
Is needful, I have here a ring she gave me. 

VICTORIAN. 

Pray let me see that ring ! It is the same ! 

( Thro'ivs it upon the ground, and tramples upon it. ) 

Thus may she perish who once wore that ring ! 
Thus do I spurn her from me ; do thus trample 
Her memory in the dust ! O Count of Lara, 
AVe both have been abused, been much abused ! 
I thank you for your courtesy and frankness. 
Though, like the surgeon's hand, yours gave me 

pain. 
Yet it has cured my blindness, and I thank you. 
I now can see the folly I have done, 
Though 't is, alas ! too late. So fare you well ! 
To-night I leave this hateful town forever. 
Regard me as your friend. Once more, farewell ! 

HYPOLITO. 

Farewell, Sir Count. 

[Exeunt Victorian atid Hypolito. 

LARA. 

Farewell ! farewell ! farewell ! 
Thus have I cleared the field of my worst foe ! 



The Spanish St:ident .255 

I have none else to fear ; the fight is done, 
The citadel is stormed, the victory won ! 

\Exit with Francisco. 



SCENE VII. 

A lane in the suburbs. Night. Enter Cruzado and 
Bartolome. 

CRUZADO. 

And so, Bartolome, the expedition failed. But 
where wast thou for the most part .? 

BARTOLOxME. 

In the Guadarrama mountains, near San Ilde- 
fonso. 

CRUZADO. 

And thou bringest nothing back with thee .^ 
Didst thou rob no one ? 

BARTOLOME. 

There was no one to rob, save a party of stu- 
dents from Segovia, who looked as if they would 
rob us ; and a jolly little friar, who had nothing in 
his pockets but a missal and a loaf of bread. 

CRUZADO. 

Pray, then, what brings thee back to Madrid ? 

BARTOLOME. 

First tell me what keeps thee here ? 



256 The Spanish Student 

CRUZADO. 

Preciosa. 

BARTOLOME. 

And she brings me back. Hast thou forgotten 
thy promise ? 

CRUZADO. 

The two years are not passed yet. Wait pa- 
tiently. The girl shall be thine. 

BARTOLOME. 

I hear she has a Busne' lover. 



CRUZADO. 



That is nothing. 



BARTOLOME. 

I do not like it. I hate him, — the son of a 
Busne' harlot. He goes in and out, and speaks 
with her alone, and I must stand aside, and wait 
his pleasure. 

CRUZADO. 

Be patient, I say. Thou shalt have thy revenge. 
When the time comes, thou shalt waylay him. 

BARTOLOME. 

Meanwhile, show me her house. 

CRUZADO. 

Come this way. But thou wilt not find her. 
She dances at the play to-night. 

BARTOLOME. 

No matter. Show me the house. \ExeunL 



The Spanish Student 257 



SCENE VIII. 

The Theatre. The orchestra plays the cachucha. Sound of 
castanets behind the scenes. The curtain rises, and discovers 
PRECIOSA in the attitude of commencing the dance. The 
cachucha. Tiimidt ; hisses; cries of '■'Brava !" and ''Afu- 
era ! " She falters and pauses. The music stops. General 
confusion. Preciosa faints. 



SCENE IX. 

The Count of Lara's chambers. Lara and his friends at 
supper. 

LARA. 

So, Caballeros, once more many thanks ! 
You have stood by me bravely in this matter. 
Pray fill your glasses. 

DON JUAN. 

Did you mar';, Don Luis, 
How pale she looked, when first the noise began, 
And then stood still, with her large eyes dilated ! 
Her nostrils spread ! her lips apart ! her bosom 
Tumultuous as the sea ! 

DON LUIS. 

I pitied her. 

LARA. 

Her pride is humbled ; and this very night 
I mean to visit her. 

VOL. IV. o 



258 The Spanish Student 

DON JUAX. 

Will you serenade ner ? 

LARA. 

No music ! no more music ! 

DON LUIS. 

Why not music ? 
It softens many hearts. 

LARA. 

Not in the humor 
She now is in. Music would madden her. 

DON JUAN. 

Try golden cymbals. 

DON LUIS. 

Yes, try Don Dinero ; 
A mighty wooer is your Don Dinero. 

LARA. 

To tell the truth, then, I have bribed her maid. 
But, Caballeros, you dislike this wine. 
A bumper and away ; for the night wears. 
A health to Preciosa. 

( T/u'v rise and drink. ) 
ALL. 

Preciosa. 

LARA {holding itp his glass). 

Thou bright and flaming minister of Love 1 



The Spanish Student 259 

Thou wonderful magician ! who hast stolen 
My secret from me, and mid sighs of passion 
Caught from my Ups, with red and fiery tongue, 
Her precious name ! O never more henceforth 
Shall mortal lips press thine ; and never more 
A mortal name be whispered in thine ear. 
Go ! keep my secret ! 

{Drinks and dashes the goblet doion. ) 
DON JUAN. 

Ite ! missa est ! 
■ {Scene-closes.) 

SCENE X. 

Street and garden ivall. Night. Enter Cruzado and 
Bartolome. 

CRUZADO. 

This is the garden wall, and above it, yonder, is 
her house. The window in which thou seest the 
light is her window. But we will not go in now. 

BARTOLOME. 

Why not } 

CRUZADO. 

Because she is' not at home. 

BARTOLOME. 

No matter : we can wait. But how is this ? The 



26o TJie Spanish Student 

gate is bolted. {Sound 0/ guitars and rv/crs in a neighbor- 
ing sired.) Hark ! There comes her lover with his 
infernal serenade ! Hark ! 

SONG. 
Good night ! Good night, beloved ! 

I come to watch o'er thee ! 
To be near thee, —to be near thee, 

Alone is peace for me. 

Thine eyes are stars of morning, 

Thy lips are crimson flowers ! 
Good night ! Good night, beloved, 

While I count the weary hours. 

CRUZADO. 

They are not coming this way. 

BARTOLOM^. 

Wait, they begin again. 

SONG [coming nearer). 

Ah ! thou moon that shinest 

Argent-clear above ! 
All night long enlighten 

My sweet lady-love ! 

Moon that shinest, 
All night long enlighten ! 

BARTOLOME. 

Woe be to him, if he comes this way ! 

CRUZADO. 

Be quiet, they are passing down the street. 



The Spanish Student 261 

SONG [dyi tig away). 

The nuns in the cloister 

Sang to each other ; 
For so many sisters 

Is there not one brother ! 
Ay, for the partridge, mother ! 

The cat has run away with the partridge ! 
• Puss ! puss ! puss ! 

BARTOLOME. 

Follow that ! follow that ! Come with me. Puss ! 
puss ! 

{Exeunt. On the opposite side enter the Count of Lara and 
gentlemoi, with Francisco.) 

LARA. 

The gate is fast. Over the wall, Francisco, 
And draw the bolt. There, so, and so, and over. 
Now, gentlemen, come in, and help me scale 
Yon balcony. How now ? Her light still burns. 
Move warily. Make fast the gate, Francisco. 

{Exeunt. Re-enter Cruzado and Bartolome.) 
BARTOT>OME. 

They went in at the gate, ^ark ! I hear them 
in the garden. {Tries the gate.) Bolted again ! Vive 
Cristo ! Follow me over the wall. 
( They climb the wall. ) 



262 TJie Spanish Student 



SCENE XL 

Preciosa's bed-chamber. Midnight. She is sleeping in an 
arm-chair, in an undress. Dolores iciatching her. 

DOLORES. 

She sleeps at last ! 

( Opens the 7vindow and listens. ) 

All silent in the street, 
And in the garden. Hark ! 



PRECIOSA {in her sleep) 

Give me my cloak ! 



I must go hence ! 



DOLORES. 

He comes ! I hear his footsteps 

PRECIOSA. 

Go tell them that I cannot dance to-night ; 
I am too ill ! Look at me ! See the fever 
That burns upon my cheek ! I must go hence. 
I am too weak to dance. 

{Signal from the garden. ) 
D0L0RE;S [from the windorc). 

A\nio 's there ? 

VOICE {from below). 

A friend. 

DOLORES. 

I will undo the door. Wait till I come. 



The Spanish Student 263 

PRECIOSA. 

I must go hence. I pray you do not harm me ! 

Shame ! shame ! to treat a feeble woman thus ! 

Be you but kind, I will do all things for you. 

I 'm ready now, — give me my castanets. 

Where is Victorian ? Oh, those hateful lamps ! 

They glare upon me like an evil eye. 

I cannot stay. Hark ! how they mock at me ! 

They hiss at me like serpents ! Save me ! save 

me ! 

[She wakes. ) 

How late is it, Dolores ? 

DOLORES. 

It is midnight. 

PRECIOSA. 

We must be patient. Smoodi this pillow for me. 

{She sleeps again. N'oise from the garden^ and voices.) 
VOICE. 

Muera ! 

ANOTHER VOICE. 

O villains ! villains ! 

LARA. 

So ! have at you 1 

VOICE. 

Take that ! 

LARA. 

O, I am wounded ! 

DOLORES {shutting the window). 

Jesu Maria ! 



264 TJie Spanish. St7ident 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. A cross-road through a 7vood. In the back- 
ground a distant village spire. Victorian and Hypo- 
LITO, as travelling students, with guitars, sitting under the 
trees. Hypolito plays and sings. 

SONG. 

Ah, Love ! 
Perjured, false, treacherous Love ! 

Enemy 
Of all that mankind may not rue ! 

Most untrue 
To him who keeps most faith with thee. 

Woe is me ! 
The falcon has the eyes of the dove. 

Ah, Love ! 
Perjured, false, treacherous Love ! 

VICTORIAN. 

Yes, Love is ever busy with his shuttle, 

Is ever weaving into life's dull warp 

Bright, gorgeous flowers and scenes Arcadian ; 

Hanging our gloomy prison-house about 

With tapestries, that make its walls dilate 

In never-ending vistas of delight. 

HYPOLITO. 

Thinking to walk in those Arcadian pastures, 
Thou hast run thy noble head against the wall. 



The Spanish Student 265 

SONG [continued). 
Thy deceits 
Give us clearly to comprehend, 

Whither tend 
All thy pleasures, all thy sweets ! 

They are cheats. 
Thorns below and flowers above. 

Ah, Love ! 
Perjured, false, treacherous Love ! 

VICTORIAN. 

A very pretty song. I thank thee for it. 

HYPOLITO. 

It suits thy case. 

VICTORIAN. 

Indeed, I think it does. 
What wise man wrote it ? 

HYPOLITO. 

Lopez Maldonado. 

VICTORIAN. 

In truth, a pretty song. 

HYPOLITO. 

^Vith mucli truth in it. 
I hope thou wilt profit by it ; and in earnest 
Try to forget this lady of thy love. 

VICTORIAN. 

I will forget her ! All dear recollections 
Pressed in my heart, like flowers within a book, 



266 The Spanish Student 

Shall be torn out, and scattered to the winds ! 

I will forget her ! But perhaps hereafter, 

When she shall learn how heartless is the worlds 

A voice within her will repeat my name, 

And she will say, " He was indeed my friend ! " 

O, would I were a soldier, not a scholar, 

That the loud march, the deafening beat of drums, 

The shattering blast of the brass-throated trumpet. 

The din of arms, the onslaught and the storm, 

And a swift death, might make me deaf forever 

To the upbraidings of this foolish heart ! 

HYPOLITO. 

Then let that foolish heart upbraid no more ! 
To conquer love, one need but will to conquer. 

VICTORIAN. 

Yet, good Hypolito, it is in vain 

I throw into Oblivion's sea the sword 

That pierces me ; for, like Excalibtir, 

With gemmed and flashing hilt, it will not sink. 

There rises from below a hand that grasps it. 

And waves it in the air ; and wailing voices 

Are heard along the shore. 

HYPOLITO. 

And yet at last 
Down sank Excalibar to rise no more. 
This is not well. In truth, it vexes me. 
Instead of whistling to the steeds of Time, 



The Spanish Student 26"/ 

To make them jog on merrily with Hfe's burden, 
Like a dead weight thou hangest on the wheels. 
Thou art too young, too full of lusty health 
To talk of dying. 

VICTORIAN. 

Yet I fain would die ! 
To go through life, unloving and unloved ; 
To feel that thirst and hunger of the soul 
We cannot still ; that longing, that wild impulse, 
And struggle after something we have not 
And cannot have ; the effort to be strong ; 
And, like the Spartan boy, to smile, and smile, 
While secret wounds do bleed beneath our cloaks ; 
All this the dead feel not, — the dead alone ! 
Would I were with them ! 

HYPOLITO. 

We shall all be soon. 

VICTORIAN. 

It cannot be too soon ; for I am weary 
Of the bewildering masquerade of Life, 
Where strangers walk as friends, and friends as 

strangers ; 
Where whispers overheard betray false hearts ; 
And through the mazes of the crowd we chase 
Some form of loveliness, that smiles, and beckons, 
And cheats us with fair words, only to leave us 
A mockery and a jest ; maddened, — confused, — 
Not knowing friend from foe. 



268 TJie Spanish SUtdeni 

HYPOLITO. 

Why seek to know ? 
Enjoy the merry shrove-tide of thy youth ! 
Take each fair mask for what it gives itself, 
Nor strive to look beneath it. 

VICTORIAN. 

' I confess, 

That were the wiser part. But Hope no longer 
Comforts my soul. I am a wretched man, 
Much like a poor and shipwrecked mariner. 
Who, struggling to climb up into the boat. 
Has both his bruised and bleeding hands cut off. 
And sinks again into the weltering sea, 
Helpless and hopeless ! 

HYPOLITO. 

Yet thou shalt not perish. 
The strength of thine own arm is thy salvation. 
Above thy head, through rifted clouds, there shines 
A glorious star. Be patient. Trust thy star ! 
{Sound of a village bell in the distance.) 

VICTORIAN. 

Ave Maria ! I hear the sacristan 

Ringing the chimes from yonder village belfry ! 

A solemn sound, that echoes fa/ and wide 

Over the red roofs of the cottages, 

And bids the laboring hind a-field, the shepherd. 

Guarding his flock, the lonely m-Jcteer, 



The Spanish Student 269 



And all the crowd in village streets, stand still, 
And breathe a prayer unto the blessed Virgin ! 

HYPOLITO. 

Amen ! amen ! Not half a league from hence 
The village lies. 



^t>^ 



VICTORIAN. 

This path will lead us to it, 
Over the wheat fields, where the shadows sail 
Across the running sea, now green, now blue, 
And, like an idle mariner on the main. 
Whistles the quail. Come, let us hasten on. 

{^Exemit. 

SCENE II. 

Public scjnare hi the village of Giiadarrama. The Ave Maria 
still lolling. A croiud of villagers, 7vith their hats in their 
hands, as if in prayer. In front, a group of Gypsies. The 
bell rings a merrier peal. A Gypsy dance. Enter Pan- 
cuo, followed by Pedro Crespo. 

PANCHO. 

Make room, ye vagabonds and Gypsy thieves ! 
Make room for the Alcalde and for me ! 

PEDRO CRESPO. 

Keep silence all ! I have an edict here 
From our most gracious lord, the King of Spain, 
Jerusalem, and the Canary Islands, 
^Vhich I shall publish in the market-place. 
Open your ears and listen ! 



270 TJic SpanisJi Student 

{Enter the Padre Cura at the door of his cottage.) 
Padre Cura, 
Good day ! and, pray you, hear this edict read. 

PADRE CURA. 

Good day, and God be with you ! Pray, what is 

it? 

PEDRO CRESPO. 

An act of banishment against the Gypsies ! 

[Agitation and nuirninrs in the ero7C'd.) 
PANCHO. 

Silence ! 

PEDRO CRESPO (reads). 

" I hereby order and command, 
That the Egyptian and Chaldean strangers, 
Known by the name of Gypsies, shall henceforth 
Be banished from the realm, as vagabonds 
And beggars ; and if, after seventy days. 
Any be found within our kingdom's bounds, 
They shall receive a hundred lashes each ; 
The second time, shall have their ears cut off; 
The third, be slaves for life to him who takes them. 
Or burnt as heretics. Signed, I, the King." 
Vile miscreants and creatures unbaptized ! 
You hear the law ! Obey and disappear ! 

PANCHO. 

And if in seventy days you are not gone. 
Dead or alive I make you all my slaves. 



The Spanish Student 271 

{The Gypsies go out in confusion, shoiving signs of fear and 
discontent. Pancho folloivs. ) 

PADRE CURA. 

A righteous law ! A very righteous law ! 
Pray you, sit down. 

PEDRO CRESPO. 

I thank you heartily. 

{They seat themselves on a bench at the Padre Cura's door. 
Sound of guitars heard at a distance, approaching during 

the dialog?ie which follows.) 

A very righteous judgment, as you say. 

Now tell me, Padre Cura, — you know all things, — ■ 

How came these Gypsies into Spain ? 

PADRE CURA. 

Why, look you ; 
They came with Hercules from Palestine, 
And hence are thieves and vagrants. Sir Alcalde, 
As the Simoniacs from Simon Magus. 
And, look you, as Fray Jayme Bleda says. 
There are a hundred marks to prove a Moor 
Is not a Christian, so 't is with the Gypsies. 
They never marry, never go to mass, 
Never baptize their children, nor keep Tent, 
Nor see the inside of a church, — nor — nor — 

PEDRO CRESPO. 

Good reasons, good, substantial reasons all ! 
No matter for the other ninety-five. 



2/2 The SpanisJi Student 

They should be burnt, I see it plain enough. 
They should be burnt. 

{Enter Victorian and Hypolito playing. ) 

PADRE CURA. 

And pray, whom have we here ? 

PEDRO CRESPO. 

More vagrants ! By Saint Lazarus, more vagrants ! 

HYPOLITO. 

Good evening, gentlemen ! Is this Guadarrama? 

PADRE CURA. 

Yes, Guadarrama, and good evening to you. 

HYPOLITO. 

We seek the Padre Cura of the village ; 

And, judging from your dress and reverend mien, 

You must be he. 

PADRE CURA. 

I am. Pray, what 's your pleasure t 

HYPOLITO. 

We are poor students, travelling in vacation. 
You know this mark ? 

( Touching the xvooden spoon in his hat-band. ) 
PADRE CURA {joyfidly). 

Ay, know it, and have worn it. 

PEDRO CRESPO {asidc^,. 

Soup-eaters ! by the mass ! The worst of vagrants ! 



The Spanish Student 273 

And there 's no law against them. Sir, your ser- 
vant. lExit. 

PADRE CURA. 

Your servant, Pedro Crespo. 

HYPOLITO. 

Padre Cura, 
From the first moment I beheld your face, 
I said within myself, " This is the man ! " 
There is a certain something in your looks, 
A certain scholar-like and studious something, — 
You understand, — which cannot be mistaken ; 
Which marks you as a very learned man, 
In fine, as one of us. 

VICTORIAN {aside). 

What impudence ! 

HYPOLITO. 

As we approached, I said to my companion, 
" That is the Padre Cura ; mark my words ! " 
Meaning your Grace. " The other man," said I, 
" AVho sits so awkwardly upon the bench. 
Must be the sacristan." 

PADRE CURA. 

Ah ! said you so ? 
Why, that was Pedro Crespo, the alcalde ! 

HYPOLITO. 

Indeed ! you much astonish me ! His air 
VOL. IV. 12* R 



274 T^^^^ SpaiiisJi Student 

Was not so full of dignity and grace 
As an alcalde's should be. 

PADRE CURA. 

That is true. 
He 's out of humor with some vagrant Gypsies, 
Who have their camp here in the neighborhood. 
There 's nothing so undignified as anger. 

HYPOLITO. 

The Padre Cura will excuse our boldness, 
If, from his well-known hospitality. 
We crave a lodging for the night. 

PADRE CURA. 

I pray you ! 
You do me honor ! I am but too happy 
To have such guests beneath my humble roof. 
It is not often that I have occasion 
To speak with scholars ; and Emollit mores, 
Nee sinit esseferos, Cicero says. 

HYPOLITO. 

'T is Ovid, is it not ? 

Padre cura. 
No, Cicero. 

HYPOLITO. 

Your Grace is right. You are the better scholar. 
Now what a dunce was I to think it Ovid ! 
But hang me if it is not ! {Aside.) 



TJie Spanish Student 275 

PADRE CURA. 

Pass this way. 
He was a very great man, was Cicero ! 
Pray you, go in, go in ! no ceremony. {Exeunt. 



SCENE III. 

A room in the Padre Cura's house. Enter the Padre and 
IIypolito. 

PADRE CURA. 

So then, Senor, you come from Alcala. 

I am glad to hear it. It was there I studied. 

HYPOLITO. 

And left behind an honored name, no doubt. 
How may I call your Grace ? 

PADRE CURA. 

Geronimo 
Dc Santillana, at your Honor's service. 

HYPOLITO. 

Descended from the Marquis Santillana ? 
igi 

PADRE CURA. 

From the Marquis, 



From the distinguished jDoet ? 



Not from the poet. 

HYPOLITO. 

Why, they were the same. 
Let me embrace you ! O some lucky star 



276 The SpanisJi Student 

Has brought me hither ! Yet once more ! — once 

more ! 
Your name is ever green in Alcala, 
And our professor, when we are unruly, 
AVill shake his hoary head, and say, " Alas ! 
It was not so in Santillana's time ! " 

PADRE CURA- 

I did not think my name remembered there. 

HYPOLITO. 

More than remembered ; it is idolized. 

PADRE CURA. 

Of what professor speak you ? 

HYPOLITO. 

Timoneda. 

PADRE CURA. 

I don't remember any Timoneda. 

HYPOLITO. 

A grave and sombre man, whose beetling brow 
O'erhangs the rushing current of his speech 
As rocks o'er rivers hang. Have you forgotten ? 

PADRE CURA. 

Indeed, I have. O, those were pleasant days, 

Those college days ! I ne'er shall see the like ! 

I had not buried then so many hopes ! 

I had not buried then so many friends ! 

I've turned my back on what was then before me ; 



The Spanisli Student 277 

And the bright faces of my young companions 
Are wrinkled hke my own, or are no more. 
Do yoa remember Cueva ? 

HYPOLITO. 

Cueva ? Cueva ? 

PADRE CURA. 

Fool that I am ! He was before your time. 
You 're a mere boy, and I am an old man. 

HYPOLITO. 

I should not like to try my strength with you. 

PADRE CURA. 

Well, well. But I forget ; you must be hungry. 
Martina ! ho ! Martina ! 'T is my niece. 
{Enter Martina. ) 

HYPOLITO. 

You may be proud of such a niece as that. 
T wish I had a niece. Emollit mores. {Aside.) 
He was a very great man, was Cicero ! 
Your servant, fair Martina. 

MARTINA. 

Servant, sir. 

PADRE CURA. 

This gentleman is hungry. See thou to it. 
Let us have supper. 

MARTINA. 

'T will be ready soon. 



2/8 The Spanish Student 

PADRE CURA. 

And bring a bottle of my Val-de-Penas 

Out of the cellar. Stay ; I '11 go myself 

Pray you, Senor, excuse me. lExif. 

HYPOLITO. 

Hist ! Martina ! 
One word with you. Bless me ! what handsome 

eyes ! 
To-day there have been Gypsies in the village. 
Is it not so ? 

MARTINA. 

There have been Gypsies here. 

'HYPOLITO. 

Yes, and they told your fortune. 

MARTINA [embarrassed ). 

Told my fortune ? 

HYPOLITO. 

Yes, yes ; I know they did. Give me your hand. 
I '11 tell you what they said. They said, — they 

said, 
The shepherd boy that loved you was a clown, 
A.nd him you should not marry. Was it not } 

MARTINA [surprised). 

How know you that t 

HYPOLITO. 

O, I know more than that. 

What a soft, little hand ! And then they said, 



The Spanish Student 279 

A cavalier from court, handsome, and tall 
And rich, should come one day to marry you, 
And you should be a lady. Was it not ? 
He has arrived, the handsome cavalier. 

{Tries to kiss her. She rims off. Enter Victorian, with a 
letter. ) 

VICTORIAN. 

The muleteer has come. 

HYPOLITO. 

So soon ? 



VICTORIAN. 



I found him 



Sitting at supper by the tavern door. 
And, from a pitcher that he held aloft 
His whole arm's length, drinking the blood-red 
wine. 

HYPOLITO. 

What news from Court ? 

VICTORIAN. 

He brought this letter only. {Reads.) 
O cursed perfidy ! Why did I let 
That lying tongue deceive me ! Preciosa, 
Sweet Preciosa ! how art thou avenged ! 

HYPOLITO. 

What news is this, that makes thy cheek turn pale, 
And thy hand tremble .? 



28o The SpanisJi Shtdcnt 

VICTORIAN. 

O, most infamous \ 
The Count of Lara is a worthless villain ! 

HYPOLITO. 

That is no news, forsooth. 

VICTORIAN. 

He strove in vain 
To steal from me the jewel of my soul, 
The love of Preciosa. Not succeeding. 
He swore to be revenged ; and set on foot 
A plot to ruin her, which has succeeded. 
She has been hissed and hooted from the stage, 
Her reputation stained by slanderous lies 
Too foul to speak of; and, once more a beggar. 
She roams a wanderer over God's green earth, 
Housing with Gypsies ! 

HYPOLITO. 

To renew again 
The Age of Gold, and make the shepherd swains 
Desperate with love, like Gasper Gil's Diana. 
Redit et Virgo ! 

VICTORIAN. 

Dear Hypolito, 
How have I wronged that meek, confiding heart ! 
I will go seek for her ; and with my tears 
Wash out the wronsf I 've done her ! 



TJlc Spanish Student 281 

HYPOLITO. 

O beware ! 
Act not that folly o'er again. 

VICTORIAN. 

Ay, fotly, 
Delusion, madness, call it what thou wilt, 
I will confess my weakness, — I still love her ! 
Still fondly love her ! 

{Enter the Padre Cura.) 

HYPOLITO. 

Tell us, Padre Cura, 
Who are these Gypsies in the neighborhood ? 

PADRE CURA. 

Beltran Cruzado and his crew. 

VICTORIAN. 

Kind Heaven, 
I thank thee ! She is found ! is founil again ! 

HYPOLITO. 

And have they with them a pale, beautiful girl, 
Called Preciosa? 

PADRE CURA. 

Ay, a pretty girl. 
The gentleman seems moved. 

HYPOLITO. 

Yes, moved with hunger, 
He is half famished with this long day's journey. 



282 The Spa? lis h Student 

PADRE CURA. 

Then, pray you, come this way. The supper waits. 

\^Exetmt. 

SCENE IV. 

A post-house on the road to Segovia, not far frovi the village of 
Giiadarrama. Enter Chispa, cracking a whip and sing- 
ing the Cachucha. 

CHISPA. 

Halloo ! Don Fulano ! Let us have horses, 
and quickly. Alas, poor Chispa! what a clog's 
life dost thou lead ! I thought, when I left my old 
master Victorian, the student, to serv^e my new 
master Don Carlos, the gentleman, that I, too, 
should lead the life of a gentleman ; should go to 
bed early, and get up late. For when the abbot 
plays cards, what can you expect of the friais? 
But, in running away from the thunder, I have run 
into the lightning. Here I am in hot chase after 
my master and his Gypsy girl. And a good begin- 
ning of the week it is, as he said who was hanged 
on Monday morning. 

{Enter Don Carlos.) 

DON CARLOS. 

Are not the horses ready yet ? 

CHISPA. 

I should think not, for the hostler seems to be 



TJie Spanish Student 283 

asleep. Ho ! within there ! Horses ! horses ! 
horses ! [H't' knocks at the gate with his whip, and enter 
Mosquito, putting on his jacket.) 

MOSQUITO. 

Pray, have a httle patience. I 'm not a musket. 

CHISPA. 

Health and pistareens ! I 'm glad to see you 
come on dancing, padre ! Pray, what 's the news ? 

MOSQUITO. 

You cannot have fresh horses ; because there 
are none. 

CHISPA. 

Cachiporra ! Throw that bone to another dog. 
Do I look like your aunt ? 

MOSQUITO. 

No ; she has a beard. 

CHISPA. 

Go to ! go to ! 

MOSQUITO. 

Are you from Madrid ? 

CHISPA. 

Yes j and going to Estramadura. Get us horses. 

MOSQUITO. 

What 's the news at Court ? 



284 The SpanisJi Student 

CHISPA. 

Why, the latest news is, that I am going to set 
up a coach, and I have already bought the whip. 

{Strikes him round the legs. ) 

MOSQUITO. 

Oh ! oh ! you hurt me ! 

DON CARLOS. 

Enough of this folly. Let us have horses. {Gives 
money to Mosquito.) It is almost dark ; and we are 
in haste. But tell me, has a band of Gypsies 
passed this way of late ? 

MOSQUITO. 

Yes ; and they are still in the neighborhood. 

DON CARLOS. 

And where t 

MOSQUITO. 

Across the fields yonder, in the woods near 
Guadarrama. {^Exit. 

DON CARLOS. 

Now this is lucky. We will visit the Gypsy 
camp. 

CHISPA. 

Are you not afraid of the evil eye ? Have you 
a stag's horn with you ? 

DON CARLOS. 

Fear not. We will pass the night at the village. 



TJie SpanisJi Student 285 

CHISPA. 

And sleep like the Squires of Hernan Daza, 
nine under one blanket. 

DON CARLOS. 

I hope we may find the Preciosa among them. 

CHISPA. 

Among the Squires ? 

DON CARLOS. 

No ; among the Gypsies, blockhead ! 

CHISPA. 

I hope we may ; for we are giving- ourselves 
trouble enough on her account. Don't you think 
so? However, there is no catching trout without 
wetting one's trousers. Yonder come the horses. 

\Exaiiit. 

SCENE V. 

The Gypsy camp in the forest. Night. Gypsies working at a 
forge. Others playing cards ly the fire-light. 

GYPSIES [at the forge sing). 
On the top of a mountain I stand, 
With* a crown of red gold in my hand, 
Wild Moors come trooping over the lea, 
O how from their fury shall I flee, flee, flee ? 
O how from their fury shall I flee ? 

FIRST GYPSY {playing). 

Down with your John-Dorados, my pigeon. 



286 The SpanisJi Student \ 

Down with your John-Dorados, and let us make ! 
an end. 

GYPSIES [flt the forge sing). : 

Loud sang the Spanish cavaUer, . 

And thus his ditty ran ; j 

God send the Gypsy lassie here, \ 

And not the Gypsy man. i 

FIRST GYPSY [playing). 

There you are in your morocco ! ' 

SECOND GYPSY. ■ 

One more game. The Alcalde's doves against 1 
the Padre Cura's new moon. 

FIRST GYPSY. ] 

Have at you, Chirelin. I 

GYVSl^e.?, {at the forge sing), \ 

At midnight, when the moon began | 

To show her silver flame, ] 

There came to him no Gypsy man, , 

The Gypsy lassie came. j 

{Enter Beltran Cruzado.) 

CRUZADO. I 

Come hither, Murcigalleros and Rastilleros ; I 

leave work, leave play ; listen to your orders for i 

the night. {Speaking to the right.) You will get you | 

to the village, mark you, by the stone cross. j 

GYPSIES. i 

Ay! i 



The Spanish Student 287 

CRUZADO {to the left). 

And you, by the pole with the hermit's head 
upon it. 

GYPSIES. 

Ay! 

CRUZADO. 

As soon as you see the planets are out, in with 
you, and be busy with the ten commandments, 
under the sly, and Saint Martin asleep. D' ye 
hear? 

GYPSIES. 

Ay! 

CRUZADO. 

Keep your lanterns open, and, if you see a 
goblin or a papagayo, take to your trampers. 
Vineyards and Dancing John is the word. Am I 
comprehended ? 



Ay! ay 



GYPSIES. 



CRUZADO. 



Away, then ! 

{Exeunt sez>e rally. Cruzado zualks iip the sta^e, and disap- 
pears among the trees. Enter Preciosa. ) 

PRECIOSA. 

How strangely gleams through the gigantic trees 
The red light of the forge ! Wild, beckoning 

shadows 
Stalk through the forest, ever and anon 



288 TJie SpanisJi Student 

Rising and bending with the flickering flame, 
Then flitting into darkness ! So within me 
Strange hopes and fears do beckon to each other, 
My brightest hopes giving dark fears a being 
As the hght does the shadow. Woe is me ! 
How still it is about me, and how lonely ! 
(Bartolome rushes in.) 

BARTOLOME. 

Ho ! Preciosa ! 

PRECIOSA. 

O Bartolome ! 
Thou here ? 

bartolom:6. 

Lo ! I am here. 

PRECIOSA. 

Whence comest thou ? 

BARTOLOME. 

From the rough ridges of the wild Sierra, 
From caverns in the rocks, from hunger, thirst, 
And fever ! Like a wild wolf to the sheepfold 
Come I for thee, my lamb. 

PRECIOSA. 

O touch me not ! 
The Count of Lara's blood is on thy hands ! 
The Count of Lara's curse is on thy soul ! 
Do not come near me ! Pray, begone from here ! 



TJie Spanish Student 289 

Thou art in danger ! They have set a price 
Upon thy head ! 

EARTOLOME. 

Ay^ and I 've wandered long 
Among the mountains ; and for many days 
Have seen no human face, save the rougli swine- 
herd's. 
Tlie wind and rain have been my sole companions. 
I shouted to them from the rocks thy name, 
And the loud echo sent it back to me, , 
Till I grew mad. I could not stay from thee, 
And I am here ! Betray me, if thou wilt. 

PRECIOSA. 

Betray thee ? I betray thee .? 

BARTOLOME. 

Preciosa ! 
I come for thee ! for thee I thus brave death ! 
Fly with me o'er the borders of this realm ! 
Fly with me ! 

PRECIOSA. 

Speak of that no more. I cannot. 
I 'm thine no longer. 

BARTOLOME. 

O, recall the time 
When we were children ! how we played together. 
How we grew up together ; how we plighted 
Our hearts unto each other, even in childhood ! 

VOL. IV. 13 s 



290 TJie Spanish Student 

Fulfil thy promise, for the hour has come. 
I 'm hunted from the kingdom, like a wolf! 
Fulfil thy promise. 

PRECIOSA. 

'T was my fiither's promise, 
Not mine. I never gave my heart to thee, 
Nor promised thee my hand ! 



BARTOLOME. 



False tongue of woman ! 



And heart more false ! 



PRECIOSA. 

Nay, listen unto me. 
I will speak frankly. I have never loved thee ; 
I cannot love thee. This is not my fault. 
It is my destiny. Thou art a man 
Restless and violent. What wouldst thou with me, 
A feeble girl, who have not long to live, 
AVhose heart is broken ? Seek another wife. 
Better than I, and fairer ; and let not 
Thy rash and headlong moods estrange her from 

thee. 
Thou art unhappy in this hopeless passion. 
I never sought thy love ; never did aught 
To make thee love me. Yet I pity thee, 
And most of all I pity thy wild heart. 
That hurries thee to crimes and deeds of blood. 
Beware, beware of that. 



The Spanish Student 291 

BARTOLOME. 

For thy dear sake 
I will be gentle. Thou shalt teach me patience. 

PRECIOSA. 

Then take this farewell, and depart in peace. 
Thou must not linger here. 

BARTOLOME. 

Come, come with me. 

PRECIOSA. 

Hark ! I hear footsteps. 

BARTOLOME. 

I entreat thee, come ! 

PRECIOSA. 

Away ! It is in vain. 

BARTOLOME. 

Wilt thou not come ? 

PRECIOSA. 

Never ! 

BARTOLOME. 

Then woe, eternal woe, upon thee ! 
Thou shalt not be another's. Thou shalt die. 

{Exit. 
PRECIOSA. 

All holy angels keep me in this hour ! 
Spirit of her who bore me, look upon me J 
Mother of God, the glorified, protect me ) 



292 TJie Spanish Student 

Christ and the saints, be merciful unto me ! 
Yet why should I fear death ? What is it to die ? 
To leave all disappointment, care, and sorrow, 
To leave all falsehood, treachery, and unkindness. 
All ignominy, suffering, and despair, 
And be at rest forever ! O dull heart. 
Be of good cheer ! When thou shalt cease to beat, 
Then shalt thou cease to suffer and complain ! 
{Elite}- Victorian and HYroLiTO behind.) 

VICTORIAN. 

'T is she ! Behold, how beautiful she stands 
Under the tent-like trees ! 



HYPOLITO. 

A woodland nymph ! 

VICTORIAN. 

I pray thee, stand aside. Leave me. 

HYPOLITO. 

Be wary. 
Do not betray thyself too soon. 

VICTORIAN {disguising his voice). 

Hist ! Gypsy ! 
PRECIOSA {aside, with emotion). 
That voice ! that voice from heaven ! O speak 

again ! 
Who is it calls ? 

VICTORIAN. 

A friend. 



The Spanish Studejit 293 

PRECIOSA [aside). 

'T is he ! 'T is he ! 
I thank thee, Heaven, that thou hast heard my 

prayer, 
And sent me this protector ! Now be strong, 
Be strong, my heart ! I must dissemble here. 
False friend or true ? 

VICTORIAN. 

A true friend to the true ; 
Fear not ; come hither. So ; can you tell fortunes .? 



PRECIOSA. 

Not in the dark. Come nearer to the fire. 
Give me your hand. It is not crossed, I see. 

VICTORIAN [putting a piece of gold into her hand). 

There is the cross. 

PRECIOSA. 

Is 't silver .? 



VICTORIAN. 



No, 't is gold. 



PRECIOSA. 

There 's a fair lady at the Court, who loves you, 
And for yourself alone. 

VICTORIAN. 

Fie ! the old story ' 
Tell me a better fortune for my money ; 
Not this old woman's tale ! 



294 T^^^ Spanish Student 

PRECIOSA. 

You are passionate ; 
And this same passionate humor in your blood 
Has marred your fortune. Yes ; I see it now ; 
The line of life is crossed by many marks. 
Shame ! shame ! O you have wronged the maid 

who loved you ! 
How could you do it .-* 

VICTORIAN. 

I never loved a maid ; 
For she I loved was then a maid no more. 

PRECIOSA. 

How know you that ? 

VICTORIAN. 

A little bird in the air 
Whispered the secret. 

PRECIOSA. 

There, take back your gold ! 
Your hand is cold, like a deceiver's hand ! 
There is no blessing in its charity ! 
Make her your wife, for you have been abused ; 
And you shall mend your fortunes, mending hers. 

VICTORIAN {aside). 

How like an angel's speaks the tongue of woman, 
When pleading in another's cause her own ! 
That is a pretty ring upon your finger. 
Pray give it me. ( Tries to take the ring. ) 



The Spanish Student 295 

PRECIOSA. 

No ; never from my hand 
Shall that be taken ! 

VICTORIAN. 

Why, 't is but a ring. 
I '11 give it back to you ; or, if I keep it, 
Will give you gold to buy you twenty such. 

PRECIOSA. 

Why would you have this ring ? 

VICTORIAN. 

A traveller's fancy, 
A whim, and nothing more. I would fain keep it 
As a memento of the Gypsy camp 
In Guadarrama, and the fortune-teller 
Who sent me back to wed a widowed maid. 
Pray, let me have the ring. 

PRECIOSA. 

No, never! never! 
I will not part with it, even when I die ; 
But bid my nurse fold my pale fingers thus, 
That it may not fall from them. 'T is a token 
Of a beloved friend, who is no more. 

VICTORIAN. 

How? dead? 

PRECIOSA. 

Yes ; dead to me ; and worse than dead. 
He is estranged ! And yet I keep this ring. 



296 The Spanish Student 

I will rise with it from my grave hereafter, 
To prove to him that I was never false. 

VICTORIAN {aside). 

Be still, my swelling heart ! one moment, still \ 
Why, 't is the folly of a love-sick girl. 
Come, give it me, or I will say 't is mine, 
And that you stole it. 

PRECIOSA. 

O, you will not dare 
To utter such a falsehood ! 

VICTORIAN. 

I not dare .-* 
Look in my face, and say if there is aught 
I have not dared, I would not dare for thee \ 

{She rt(shes into his arms. ) 
PRECIOSA. 

'T is thou ! 't is thou ! Yes ; yes ; my heart's 

elected ! 
My dearest-dear Victorian ! my soul's heaven ! 
Where hast thou been so long ? Why didst thou 

leave me .? 

VICTORIAN. 

Ask me not now, my dearest Preciosa. 
Let me forget we ever have been parted ! 

PRECIOSA. 

Hadst thou not come 



The Spanish Student 2<^y 

VICTORIAN. 

I pray thee, do not chide me 1 

PRECIOSA. 

I should have perished here among these Gypsies. 

VICTORIAN. 

Forgive me, sweet ! for what I made thee suffer. 

Think'st thou this heart could feel a moment's joy, 

Thou being absent "i O, believe it not ! 

Indeed, since that sad hour I have not slept, 

For thinking of the wrong I did to thee ! 

Dost thou forgive me ? Say, wilt thou forgive me ? 

PRECIOSA. 

I have forgiven thee. Ere those words of anger 
Were in the book of Heaven writ down against 

thee, 
I had forgiven thee. 

VICTORIAN. 

I 'm the veriest fool 
That walks the earth, to have believed thee false. 
It was the Count of Lara 

PRECIOSA. 

That bad man 
Has worked me harm enough. Hast thou not 
heard 

VICTORIAN. 

I have heard all. And yet speak on, speak on ! 
13* 



298 TJie Spanish Student 

Let me but hear thy voice, and I am happy ; 
For every tone, like some sweet incantation, 
Calls up the buried past to plead for me. 
Speak, my beloved, speak into my heart, 
Whatever fills and agitates thine own. 
( T/iey 7i'alk aside. ) 

HYPOLITO. 

All gentle quarrels in the pastoral poets, 
All passionate love scenes in the best romances, 
All chaste embraces on the public stage, 
All soft adventures, which the liberal stars 
Have winked at, as the natural course of things, 
Have been surpassed here by my friend, the stu- 
dent. 
And this sweet Gypsy lass, fair Preciosa ! 

PRECIOSA. 

Sehor Hypolito ! I kiss your hand. 
Pray, shall I tell your fortune ? 

HYPOLITO. 

Not to-night ; 
For, should you treat me as you did Victorian, 
And send me back to marry maids forlorn, 
My wedding day would last from now till Christ- 
. mas. 

CHISPA (jvithin). 

What ho ! the Gypsies, ho ! Beltran Cruzado ! 
Halloo ! halloo ! halloo ! halloo ! 

{Enters hooted, unth a whip and lantern.) 



The Spanish Student 299 

VICTORIAN. 

What now ? 
Why such a fearful din? Hast thou been robbed? 

CHISPA. 

Ay, robbed and murdered ; and good evening to 

you, 
My worthy masters. 

VICTORIAN. 

Speak ; what brings thee here ? 

CHISPA [to Prcciosa). 

Good news from Court ; good news ! Behran Cru- 

zado. 
The Count of the Cales, is not your father. 
But your true father has returned to Spain 
Laden with wealth. You are no more a Gypsy. 

VICTORIAN. 

Strange as a Moorish tale ! 

CHISPA. 

And we have all 
Been drinking at the tavern to your health, 
As v/ells drink in November, when it rains. 

VICTORIAN. 

Where is the gentleman ? 

CHISPA. 

As the old song says, 
His body is in Segovia, 
His soul is in Madrid. 



300 The Spanish Student 

PRECIOSA. 

Is this a dream ? O, if it be a dream, 
Let me sleep on, and do not wake me yet ! 
Repeat thy story ! Say I 'm not deceived ! 
Say that I do not dream ! I am awake j 
This is the Gypsy camp ; this is Victorian, 
And this his friend, Hypohto ! Speak ! speak ! • 
Let me not wake and find it all a dream ! 

VICTORIAN. 

It is a dream, sweet child ! a waking dream, 

A blissful certainty, a vision bright 

Of that rare happiness, w^hich even on earth 

Heaven gives to those it loves. Now art thou rich, 

As thou wast ever beautiful and good ; 

And I am now the beggar. 

PRECIOSA {giving him her hand). 

I have still 
A hand to give. 

CHISPA [aside). 
And I have two to take. 
I 've heard my grandmother say, that Heaven gives 

almonds 
To those who have no teeth. That 's nuts to crack. 
I 've teeth to spare, but where shall I find al- 
monds ? 

VICTORIAN. 

What more of this strange story t 



The Spanish Student 301 

CHISPA. , . 

Nothing more. 
Your friend, Don Carlos, is now at the village 
Showing to Pedro Crespo, the Alcalde, 
The proofs of what I tell you. The old hag, 
Who stole you in your childhood, has confessed ; 
And probably they '11 hang her for the crime, 
To make the celebration more complete. 

VICTORIAN. 

No ; let it be a day of general joy ; 

Fortune comes well to all, that comes not late. 

Now let us join Don Carlos. 

HYPOLITO. 

So farewell. 
The student's wandering life ! Sweet serenades, 
Sung under ladies' windows in the night. 
And all that makes vacation beautiful ! 
To you, ye cloistered shades of Alcala, 
To you, ye radiant visions of romance. 
Written in books, but here surpassed by truth. 
The Bachelor Hypolito returns, 
And leaves the Gypsy with the Spanish Student. 



302 TJie SpanisJi Student 

SCENE VI. 

A pass hi the GuadarTama mouniains. Early mor:i:jig. 
A muleteer crosses the stage, sitting sideways on his miile, 
and lighting a paper cigar with flint and steel. 

SONG. 

If thou art sleeping, maiden, 

Awake and open thy door, 
'T is the break of day, and we must away, 

O'er meadow, and mount, and moor. 

Wait not to find thy slippers, 

But come with thy naked feet ; 
We shall have to pass through the dewy grass, 

And waters wide and fleet. 

{Disappears down the pass. Enter a Monk. A Shepherd 
appears on the rocks above. ) 

MONK. 

Ave Maria, gratia plena. Ola ! good man ! 

SHEPHERD. 

Ola! 

MONK. 

Is this the road to Segovia ? 

SHEPHERD. 

It is, your reverence. 

MONK. 

How far is it.'* 



The Spanish Stitdent 303 

SHEPHERD. 

I do not know. 

MONK. 

What is that yonder in the valley ? 

SHEPHERD. 

San Ildefonso. 

MONK. 

A long way to breakfast. 

SHEPHERD. 

Ay, marry. 

MONK. 

Are there robbers in these mountains ? 

SHEPHERD. 

Yes, and worse than that. 

MONK. 

What ? 

SHEPHERD. 

Wolves. 

MONK. 

Santa Maria ! Come with me to San Ildefonso, 
and thou shalt be well rewarded. 

SHEPHERD. 

What wilt thou give me ? 

MONK. 

An Agnus Dei and my benediction. 



304 The Spanish Stiident 

( They disappear. A mounted Contrahandista passes^ ivrapped 
in his cloak, and a gnn at his saddle-bozv. He goes down the 
pass singi?ig. ) 

SONG. 

Worn with speed is my good steed, 

And I march me hurried, worried ; 

Onward, caballito mio, 

With the white star in thy forehead ! 

Onward, for here comes the Ronda, 

And I hear their rifles crack ! 

Ay, jaleo ! Ay, ay, jaleo ! 

Ay, jaleo ! They cross our track. 

(Song dies a7vay. Enter Preciosa, on horseback, attended by 
Victorian, Hypolito, Don Carlos, and Chispa, on 
foot, a7id armed.) 

VICTORIAN. 

This is the highest point. Here let us rest. 

See, Preciosa, see how all about us 

Kneeling, like hooded friars, the misty mountains 

Receive the benediction of the sun ! 

O glorious sight ! 

PRECIOSA. 

Most beautiful indeed ! 



HYPOLITO. 



Most wonderful ! 



VICTORIAN. 

And in the vale below, 
Where yonder steeples flash like lifted halberds, 



The Spanish Student 305 

San Ildefonso, from its noisy belfries, 
Sends up a salutation to the morn, 
As if an army smote their brazen shields, 
And shouted victory ! 

PRECIOSA. 

And which way lies 
Segovia ? 

VICTORIAN. 

At a great distance yonder. 
Dost thou not see it 1 

PRECIOSA. 

No.< I do not see it. 

VICTORIAN. 

The merest flaw that dents the horizon's edge. 
There, yonder ! 

HYPOLITO. 

'T is a notable old town. 
Boasting an ancient Roman aqueduct, 
And an Alcazar, builded by the Moors, 
Wherein, you may remember, poor Gil Bias 
Was fed on Fan del Rey. O, many a time 
Out of its grated windows have I looked 
Hundreds of feet plumb down to the Eresma, 
That, like a serpent through the valley creeping. 
Glides at its foot. 

PRECIOSA. 

O yes ! I see it now, 



3o6 The Spanish Student 

Yet rather with my heart than with mine eyes, 
So faint it is. And, all my thoughts sail thither, 
Freighted with prayers and hopes, and forward 

urged 
Against all stress of accident, as in 
The Eastern Tale, against the wind and tide 
Great ships' were drawn to the Magnetic Moun- 
tains, 
And there were wrecked, and perished in the 
sea! [She weeps.) 

VICTORIAN. 

O gentle spirit ! Thou didst bear unmoved 
Blasts of adversity and 'frosts of fate ! 
But the first ray of sunshine that falls on thee 
Melts thee to tears ! O, let thy weary heart 
Lean upon mine ! and it shall faint no more, 
Nor thirst, nor hunger ; but be comforted 
And filled with my affection. 

PRECIOSA. 

Stay no longer ! 
My father waits. Methinks I see him there, 
Now looking from the window, and now watching 
Each sound of wheels or footfall in the street. 
And saying, " Hark ! she comes ! " O father ! 
father ! 
( They descend the pass. C H I s PA remains behind. ) 
CHISPA. 

I have a father, too, but he is a dead one. Alas 



The Spanish Student 307 

and alack-a-day ! Poor was I born, and poor 
do I remain. I neither win nor lose. Thus I wag 
through the world, half the time on foot, and the 
other half walking ; and always as merry as a thun- 
der-storm in the night. And so we plough along, 
as the fly said to the ox. Who knows what may 
happen ? Patience, and shuffle the cards ! I am 
not yet so bald that you can see my brains ; and 
perhaps, after all, I shall some day go to Rome, 
and come back Saint Peter. Benedicite ! VRxit. 

{A pause. Then enter Bartolome unldly, as if in pursuit^ 
with a carbine in his hand.) 

BARTOLOME. 

They passed this way ! I hear their horses' hoofs ! 
Yonder I see them ! Come, sweet caramillo, 
This serenade shall be the Gypsy's last ! 

{Fires dcnvn the pass.) 
Ha ! ha ! Well whistled, my sweet caramillo ! 
Well whistled! — I have missed her! — O my 
God! 
( The shot is returned. B ARTOLOM E falls . ) 



NOTES 



NOTES 



Page 49. Coplas de Mauri que. 

This poem of Maiirique is a great favorite in Spain. No 
less than four poetic Glosses, or running commentaries, upon 
it have been published, no one of which, however, possesses 
great poetic merit. That of the Carthusian monk, Rodrigo 
de Valdepenas, is the best. It is known, as the Glosa del 
Carhijo. There is also a prose Commentary by Luis de 
A ran da. 

The following stanzas of the poem were found in the 
author's pocket, after his death on the field of battle. 

" O World ! so few the years we live, 
Would that the life which thou dost give 
Were life indeed ! 
Alas ! thy sorrows fall so fast, 
Our happiest hour is when at last 
The soul is freed. 

" Our dSys are covered o'er with grief, 
And sorrows neither few nor brief 
Veil all in gloom ; 
Left desolate of real good, 
Within this cheerless solitude 
No pleasures bloom. 

"Thy pilgrimage begins in tears. 
And ends in bitter doubts and feSrs, 
Or dark despair ; 
Midway so many toils appear. 
That he who lingers longest here 
Knows most of care. 



3 1 2 Notes 

"Thy goods are bought with many a groan, 
By the hot sweat of toif alone, 
And weary hearts ; 
Fleet-footed is the approach of woe, 
But with a lingering step and slow 
Its form dr^parls." 

Page 83. My Grave! 

Nils Juel was a celebrated Danish Admiral, and Peder 
Wessel, a Vice-Admiral, who for his great prowess received 
the popular title of Tordenskiold, or Thunder-shield. In 
childhood he was a tailor's apprentice, and rose to his high 
rank before the age of twenty-eight, when he was killed in a 
duel. 

Page 103. The Skeleton in Armor. 

This Ballad was suggested to me while riding on the 
sea-shore at Newport. A year or two previous a skeleton 
had been dug up at Fall River, clad in broken and corroded 
armor ; and the idea occurred to me of connecting it with 
the Round Tower at Newport, generally known hitherto 
as the Old Windmill, though now claimed by the Danes as 
a work of their early ancestors. Professor Rafn, in the 
Menioires de la SociHe Royale des Antiqiiaires du Nord, for 
1838- 1839, says: — 

" There is no mistaking in this instance the style in which the 
more ancient stone edifices of the North were constructed, — 
the style which belongs to tlie Roman or Ante-Gothic archi- 
tecture, and which, especially after the time of Charlemagne, 
diffused itself from Italy over the whole of the West and 
North of Europe, where it continued to predominate until the 
close of the twelfth century, — that style which some authors 
have, from one of its most striking characteristics, called the 
round arch style, the same which in England is denominated 
Saxon and sometimes Norman architecture. 



Notes 313 

" On the ancient structure ii^ Newport there are no orna- 
ments remaining, which might possibly have served to guide 
us in assigning the probable date of its erection. That no 
vestige whatever is found of the pointed arch, nor any approx- 
imation to it, is indicative of an earher ratlier than of a later 
period. From such characteristics as remain, however, we can 
scarcely form any other inference than one, in which I am 
persuaded that all who are familiar with Old-Nothern archi- 
tecture will concur, THAT THIS BUILDING WAS ERECTED AT 
A PERIOD DECIDEDLY NOT LATER THAN THE TWELFTH 

CENTURY. This remark applies, of course, to the original 
building only, and not to the alterations that it subsequently 
received ; for there are several such alterations in the upper 
part of the building which cannot be mistaken, and which 
were most likely occasioned by its being adapted in modern 
times to various uses ; for example, as the substructure of a 
Avindmill, and latterly as a hay magazine. To the same times 
may be referred the windows, the fireplace, and the apertures 
made above the columns. That this building could not have 
been erected for a windmill, is what an architect will easily 
discern." 

I will not enter into a discussion of the point. It is suffi- 
ciently well established for the purpose of a ballad ; though 
doubtless many a citizen of Newport, who has passed his 
days within sight of the Round Tower, M'ill be ready to ex- 
claim, with Sancho : " God bless me ! did I not warn you 
to have a care of what you were doing, for that it was nothing 
but a windmill ; and nobody could mistake it, but one who 
had the like in his head." 

Page 109. Skoal! 

In Scandinavia, tliis is the customary salutation when 
drinking a health. I have slightly changed the orthography 
of the word, in order to preserve the correct pronunciation. 
VOL. IV, 14 



314 Notes 

Page 113. The Licck of Edeiihall. 

The tradition upon which this ballad is founded, and the 
"shards of the Luck of Edenhall," still exist in England. 
The goblet is in the possession of Sir Christopher Musgrave, 
Bart., of Eden Hall, Cumberland ; and is not so entirely shat- 
tered as the ballad leaves it. 

Page 1 16. The Elected Ji night. 

This strange and somewhat mystical ballad is from Nyerup 
and Rahbek's Danske Viser of the Middle Ages. It seems 
to refer to the first preaching of Christianity in the North, 
and to the institution of Knight- Errantry. The three maid- 
ens I suppose to be Faith, Hope, and Charity. The irregu- 
larities of the original have been carefully preserved in the 
translation. 

Page 186. As Lope says. 

" La colera 
de un Espaiiol sentado no se templa, 
sino le representan en dos horas 
hasta el final juicio desde el Genesis." 

Lope de Vega. 

Page 191. Aberniincio Satanas. 

" Digo, Senora, respondio Sancho, lo que tengo dicho, 
que de los azotes abernuncio. Abrenuncio, habeis de decir, 
Sancho, y no como decis, dijo el Duque." — Don Quixote, 
Part H. ch. 35. 

Page 208. Fray Carrillo. 

The allusion here is to a Spanish Epigram. 

"Siempre Fray Carrillo estds 
cansdndonos aci fuera : 
quien en tu celda estuviera 
para no verte jamas I " 

B'dht de Faber- Floresta, No. 611. 



Notes 315 



Page 208. Padre Francisco. 

This is from an Italian popular song. 



" ' Padre Francesco, 
Padre Francesco ! ' 
— Cosa volete del Padre Francesco? — 
'V e una bella ragazzina 
Che si vuole confessar ! ' 
Fatte P entrare, fatte 1' entrare ! 
Che la voglio confessare." 

Kopisch. Volksthumliche Poesien aits alien Mun- 
darten Italiens und seiner Inseln, p. 194. 



Page 211. Ave ! ctijus c ale em dare. 

From a monkish hymn of the twelfth century, in Sir Alex- 
ander Croke's Essay on the Origin^ Progress^ and Decline of 
Rhyming Latin Verse, p. 109. 

Page 222. The gold of the Biisne. 

Busne is the name given by the Gypsies to all who are not 
of their race. 

Page 224. Count of the Cales. 

The Gypsies call themselves Cales, See Borrow's valuable 
and extremely interesting work, The Zincali ; or an Account 
of the- Gypsies in Spain. London, 1841. 

Pape 230. Asks if his money-bags woitld rise, 

"^Y volviendome a un lado, vi a un Avariento, que 
estaba preguntando a otro, (que por haber sido embalsamado, 
y estar lexos sus tripas no hablaba, porque no habian llegado 
si habian de resucitar aquel dia todos los enterrados) si resu- 
citarian unos bolsones suyos ? " — El SiieTxo de las Calaveras, 



3i6 Notes 

Page 230. And amen ! said my C id the Campeador. 
A line from the ancient Poe?na del Cid. 

"Amen, dixo Mio Cid el Campaador.'' 

Line 3044. 

Page 232. The river of his thoughts. 
This expression is from Dante ; 

" Si che chiaro 
Per essa scenda della mente ii fiume." 

Byron has likewise used the expression ; tliough I do not 
recollect in which of his poems. 

Page 233. Alari Franca. 

A common Spanish proverb, used to turn aside a question 
one does not wish to answer ; 

" Porque caso Mari F'ranca 
quatro leguas de Salamanca." 

Page 235. Ay, soft, emerald eyes. 

The Spaniards, with good reason, consider this color of the 
eye as beautiful, and celebrate it in song ; as, for example, in 
the well-known Villa ncico : 

"Ay ojuelos verdes, 
ay los mis ojuelos, 
ay hagan los cielos 
que de mf te acuerdes ! 

Tengo confianza 
de mis verdes ojos." 

Bdhl de Faber. Floresta, -No. 255. 

Dante speaks of Beatrice's eyes as emeralds. Purgatorio, 
xxxi. 116. Lami says, in his Annotazioni, " Erano i suoi 
occhi d' un turchino verdiccio, simile a quel del mare." 



Notes 3 1 7 

Page 237. The A7!enging Child. 

See the ancient Ballads of El Infante Vengador^ and Ca- 
laynos. 

Page 237. Alt arc sleeping. 

From the Spanish. B'ohl de Faber. Floresta., '^o. 2%2. 

Page 260. Good night. 

From the Spanish ; as are likewise the songs immediately 
following, and that which commences the first scene of Act III, 

Page 284. The evil eye. 

"In the Gitano language, casting the evil eye is called 
Qnerelar Jiasula, which simply means making sick, and 
which, according to- the common superstition, is accomplished 
by casting an evil look at people, especially children, who, 
from the tenderness of tlieir constitution, are supposed to be 
more easily blighted than those of a more mature age. After 
receiving the evil glance, they fall sick, and die in a few 
hours. 

"The Spaniards have very little to say resjiecting the evil 
eye, thougli tlie belief in it is very prevalent, especially in 
Andalusia, amongst the lower orders. A stag's horn is con- 
sidered a good safeguard, and on that account a small horn, 
tipped with silver, is frequently attached to tlie children's 
necks by means of a cord braided from the hair of a black 
mare's tail. Should the evil glance be cast, it is imagined 
that the horn receives it, and instantly sna'\s asunder. Such 
horns may be purchased in some of the silversmiths' shops at 
Seville." — 'QoKKOw' S Zincali, Vol I. ch. ix. 

Page 285. On the top of a mountain I stand. 

This and the following scraps of song are from Borrow's 
Zincali; or an Account of the Gypsies in Spain. 



3i8 Notes 

The Gypsy words in the same scene may be thus inter- 
preted : — 

yohn- Dorados^ pieces of gold. 

Pigeon^ a simpleton. •• 

In your morocco^ stripped. 

Doves, sheets. 

Moon, a shirt. 

Chirelin, a thief. 

Mw'cigalleros, those who steal at nightfall. 

Rastilleros, footpads. 

Hermit, highway-robber. 

Planets, candles. 

Conimandments, the fingers. 

Saint Martin asleep, to rob a person asleep. 

Lanterns, eyes. 

Goblin, police officer. 

Papagayo, a spy. 

Vineyards ajtd Dancing John, to take flight. 

Page 302. If t/i on art sleeping, maiden. 

From the Spanish ; as is likewise the song of the Contra 
bandista on page 304. 



THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 



VOL. H. 



CONTENTS 



THE BELFRY OF BRUGES AND OTHER POEMS. 

Page 

Carillon • • • '3 

The Belfry of Bruges . . . • • 7 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

A Gleam of Sunshine ^3 

The Arsenal at Springfield ... . • i5 

Nuremberg ^^ 

The Norman Baron 22 

Rain in Summer 25 

To a Child 29 

The Occultation of Orion 3^ 

The Bridge 39 

To THE Driving Cloud 42 

SONGS. 

Seaweed 47 

The Day is done 49 

Afternoon in February . . . ... 5^ 

To AN OLD Danish Song-Book . . . -52 

Walter von der Vogelweid . . . . 55 

Drinking Song 57 

The Old Clock on the Stairs .... 60 

The Arrow and the Song ..... 63 



iv Contents 

SONNETS. 

The Evening Star ...... 67 

Autumn 67 

Dante 68 

TRANSLATIONS. 

The Hemlock-Tree 71 

Annie of Tharaw 72 

The Statue over the Cathedral Door . . 74 
The Legend of the Crossbill . . . .75 

The Sea hath its Pearls 76 

Poetic Aphorisms 77 

CURFEW 81 

EVANGELINE. 

Part the First 89 

Part the Second 135 

THE SEASIDE AND THE FIRESIDE. 
Dedication 189 

BY THE SEASIDE. 
The Building of the Ship . . . . ' . 195 

Chrysaor 210 

The Secret of the Sea 211 

Twilight 213 

Sir Humphrey Gilbert 214 

The Lighthouse 216 

The Fire of Drift-wood 218 

BY THE FIRESIDE. 

Resignation 223 

The Builders 225 



Contents v 

Sand of the Desert in an Hour-glass . . 227 

Birds of Passage 229 

The Open Window 231 

King Witlaf's Drinking-horn .... 232 

Caspar Becerra 234 

Pegasus in Pound 235 

Tegner's Drapa 238 

Sonnet 241 

The Singers 241 

Suspiria 243 

Hymn 243 

TRANSLATIONS. 

The Blind Girl of CastI:l-Cuille . . . 245 
A Christmas Carol ....... 262 

NOTES ......... 265 



THE BELFRY OF BRUGES 

AND OTHER POEMS 



1845 



VOL. V. 



CARILLON 

IN the ancient town of Bruges, ' 
In the quaint old Flemish city, 
As the evening shades descended. 
Low and loud and sweetly blended. 
Low at times and loud at times, 
And changing like a poet's rhymes, 
Rang the beautiful wild chimes 
From the Belfry in the market 
Of the ancient town of Bruges. 

Then, with deep sonorous clangor 
Calmly answering their sweet anger, 
When the wrangling bells had ended, 
Slowly struck the clock eleven, 
And, from out the silent heaven, 
Silence on the town descended. 
Silence, silence everywhere. 
On the earth and in the air, 
Save that footsteps here and there 
Of some burgher home returning, 
By the street lamps faintly burning, 



The Belfry of Bruges 

For a moment woke the echoes 
Of the ancient town of Bruges. 



But amid my broken slumbers 
Still I heard those magic numbers, 
As they loud proclaimed the flight 
And stolen marches of the night ; 
Till their chimes in sweet collision 
Mingled with each wandering vision, 
Mingled with the fortune-telling 
Gypsy-bands of dreams and fancies. 
Which amid the waste expanses 
Of the silent land of trances 
Have their solitary dwelling ; 
All else seemed asleep in Bruges, 
In the quaint old Flemish city. 

And I thought how like these chimes 
Are the poet's airy rhymes, 
All his rhymes and roundelays, 
His conceits, and songs, and ditties, 
From the belfry of his brain, 
Scattered downward, though in vain. 
On the roofs and stones of cities ! 
For by night the drowsy ear 
Under its curtains cannot hear. 
And by day men go their ways. 
Hearing the music as they pass, 



Carillon 

But deeming it no more, alas ! 
Than the hollow sound of brass. 

Yet perchance a sleepless wight, 

Lodging at some humble inn 

In the narrow lanes of life, 

When the dusk and hush of night 

Shut out the incessant din 

Of daylight and its toil and strife, 

May listen with a calm delight 

To the poet's melodies, 

Till he hears, or dreams he hears, 

Intermingled with the song, 

Thoughts that he has cherished long ; 

Hears amid the chime and singing 

The bells of his own village ringing. 

And wakes, and finds his slumberous eyes 

Wet with most delicious tears. 

Thus dreamed I, as by night I lay 
In Bruges, at the Fleur-de-Ble, 
Listening with a wild delight 
To the chimes that, through the night, 
Rang their changes from the Belfry 
Of that quaint old Flemish city. 



THE BELFRY OF BRUGES 



N the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry 
old and brown ; 
Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it 
watches o'er the town. 



I 



As the summer morn was breaking, on that lofty- 
tower I stood, 

And the world threw off the darkness, like the 
weeds of widowhood. 

Thick with towns and hamlets studded, and with 

streams and vapors gray, 
Like a shield embossed with silver, round and vast 

the landscape lay. 

At my feet the city slumbered. From its chim- 
neys, here and there, 

Wreaths of snow-white smoke, ascending, vanished, 
ghost-like, into air. 



8 The Belfry of Bruges 

Not a sound rose from the city at that early morn- 
ing hour, 

But I heard a heart of iron beating in the ancient 
tower. 



From their nests beneath the rafters sang the 

swallows wild and high ; 
And tlie world, beneath me sleeping, seemed more 

distant than the sky. 

Then most musical and solemn, bringing back the 

olden times. 
With their strange, unearthly changes rang the 

melancholy chimes, 

Like the psalms from some old cloister, when the 

nuns sing in the choir ; 
And the great bell tolled among them, like the 

chanting of a friar. 

Visions of the days departed, shadowy phantoms 

filled my brain ; 
They who live in history only seemed to walk the 

earth again ; 

All the Foresters of Flanders, — mighty Baldwin 

Bras de Fer, 
Lyderick du Bucq and Cressy, Philip, Guy de 

Dampierre. 



The Belfry of Bruges g 

I beheld the pageants splendid that adorned those 

days of old ; 
Stately dames, like queens attended, knights who 

bore the Fleece of Gold 

Lombard and Venetian merchants with deep-laden 

argosies ; 
Ministers from twenty nations ; more than royal 

pomp and ease. 

I beheld proud Maximilian, kneeling humbly on 

the ground ; 
I beheld the gentle Mary, hunting with her hawk 

and hound ; 

And her lighted bridal-chamber, where a duke 

slept with the queen. 
And the armed guard around them, and the sword 

unsheathed between. 

I beheld the Flemish weavers, with Namur and 

Juliers bold, 
Marching homeward from the bloody battle of the 

Spurs of Gold ; 

Saw the fight at Minnewater, saw the White 

Hoods moving west. 
Saw great Artevelde victorious scale the Golden 

Dragon's nest. 
I * 



lO The Belfry of Bruges 

And again the whiskered Spaniard all the land 

with terror smote ; 
And again the wild alarum sounded from the 

tocsin's throat ; 

Till the bell of Ghent responded o'er lagoon and 

dike of sand, 
" I am Roland ! I am Roland ! there is victory in 

the land ! " 

Then the sound of drums aroused me. The awak- 
ened cit}''s roar 

Chased the phantoms I had summoned back into 
their graves once more. 

Hours had passed away like minutes ; and, before 
I was aware, 

Lo ! the shadow of the belfry crossed the sun-illu- 
mined square. 



MISCELLANEOUS 



A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE 

THIS is the place. Stand still, my steed, 
Let me review the scene, 
And summon from the shadowy Past j 

The forms that once have been. | 

j 

The Past and Present here unite ] 

Beneath Time's flowing tide, j 

Like footprints hidden by a brook, j 
But seen on either side. 

Here runs the highway to the town ; 

There the green lane descends, 
Through which I walked to church with thee, j 

O gentlest of my friends ! ] 

The shadow of the linden-trees ] 

Lay moving on the grass ; -; 

Between them and the moving boughs, ^ 
A shadow, thou didst pass. 



A Gleam cf S::Jis/n:ie 

Thy dress was like the hhes, 

And thy heart as pure as they : 
One of God's holy messengers 

Did walk with me that da}^ 

I saw the branches of the trees 

Bend down thy touch to meet, \ 

The clover-blossoms in the 2frass ■ 

Rise up to kiss thy feet. i 

" Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, . 

Of earth and folly born ! " 

Solemnly sang the village choir \ 

On that sweet Sabbath morn. . 

Through the closed blinds the golden sun 

Poured in a dusty beam, ■ 

Like the celestial ladder seen ! 

By Jacob in his dream. i 

.j 

And ever and anon, the wind, j 

Sweet-scented with the hay, ] 

Turned o'er the hym.i-book's fluttering leaves 

That on the window lay. ; 

Long was the good man's sermon, i 

Yet it seemed not so to me ; 
For he spake of Ruth the beautiful. 

And still I thought of thee. \ 



The Arsenal at Springfield 15 

Long was the prayer he uttered, 

Yet it seemed not so to me ; 
For in my heart I prayed with him, 

And still I thought of thee. 

But now, alas ! the place seems changed ; 

Thou art no longer here : 
Part of the sunshine of the scene 

With thee did disappear. 

Though thoughts, deep-rooted in my heart, 

Like pine-trees dark and high, 
Subdue the light of noon, and breathe 

A low and ceaseless sigh ; 

This memory brightens o'er the past, 

As when the sun, concealed 
Behind some cloud that near us hangs. 

Shines on a distant field. 



THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD 



^ I ^HIS is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, 

-S- Like a huge organ, rise the burnislied arms ; 
But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing 
Startles the villages with strange alarms. 



1 6 The Arsenal at Springfield 

Ah ! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, 
When the death-angel touches those swift keys ! 

What loud lament and dismal Miserere 
Will mingle with their awful symphonies ! 

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus. 
The cries of agony, the endless groan, 

Which, through the ages that have gone before us, 
In long reverberations reach our own. 

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer. 
Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's 
song,. 

And loud, amid the universal clamor. 

O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. 

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace 
Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din. 

And Aztec priests upon their teocallis 

Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin ; 

The tumult of each sacked and burning village ; 

The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns ; 
The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage ; 

The wail of famine in beleaguered towns ; 

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, 
The rattling musketry, the clashing blade ; 

And ever and anon, in tones of tlrinder. 
The diapason of the cannonade. 



The Arsenal at Springfield ly 

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, 
With such accursed instruments as these, 

Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices, 
And j arrest the celestial harmonies? 

Were half the power, that fills the world with terror, 
Were half the wealth, bestowed on camps and 
courts. 

Given to redeem the human mind from error, 
There were no need of arsenals or forts : 

The warrior's name would be a name abhorred ! 

And every nation, that should lift again 
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead 

Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain ! 

Down the dark future, through long generations. 
The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease ; 

And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, 
I hear once more the voice of Christ say, 
" Peace ! " 

Peace ! and no longer from its brazen portals 
The blast of War's great organ shakes the 
skies ! 

But beautiful as songs of the immortals, 
The holy melodies of love arise. 



1 8 Nuremberg 



NUREMBERG 

IN the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad 
meadow-lands 
Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, 
the ancient, stands. 

Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town 

of art and song. 
Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks 

that round them throng : 

Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, 

rough and bold. 
Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, 

centuries old ; 

And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in 

their uncouth rh3^me, 
That their great imperial city stretched its hand 

through every clime. 

In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many 

an iron band, 
Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Cuni- 

gunde's hand ; 



Nuremberg 19 

On the square the oriel window, where in old 

heroic days 
Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maximilian's 

praise. 

Ever}^where I see around me rise the wondrous 

world of Art : 
Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing 

in the common mart ; 

And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops 

carved in stone, 
By a former age commissioned as apostles to our 

own. 

In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined 

his holy dust, 
And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from 

age to age their trust ; 

In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of 

sculpture rare, 
Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through 

the painted air. 

Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, 

reverent heart. 
Lived and labored Albrecht Diirer, the Evangelist 

of Art : 



20 Nuremberg 

Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with 

busy hand, 
Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the 

Better Land. 

Emigravit is the inscription on the tombstone 

where he lies ; 
Dead he is not, but departed, — for the artist never 

dies. 

Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine 

seems more fair, 
That he once has trod its pavement, that he once 

has breathed its air ! 

Through these streets so broad and stately, these 

obscure and dismal lanes, 
Walked of yore the Mastersingers, chanting rude 

poetic strains. 

From remote and sunless suburbs came they to 

the friendly guild, 
Building nests in Fame's great temple, as in spouts 

the swallows build. 

As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the 

mystic rhyme, 
And the smith his iron measures hammered to the 

anvil's chime ; 



Nuremberg: 2 1 



<b 



Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes 

the flowers of poesy bloom 
In the forge's dust and cinders, in the tissues of 

the loom. 

m 

Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the 

gentle craft, 
Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios 

sang and laughed. 

But his house is now an ale-house, with a nicely 

sanded floor, 
And a garland in the window, and his face above 

the door; 

Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Pusch- 

man's song, 
As the old man gray and dove-like, with his great 

beard white and long. 

And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown 

his cark and care, 
Quafling ale from pewter tankards, in the master's 

antique chair. 

Vanished is the ancient splendor, and before my 

dreamy eye 
Wave these mingling shapes and figures, like a 

faded tapestry. 



22 The Norviaii Baron 

Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the 

world's regard ; 
But thy painter, Albrecht Dlirer, and Hans Sachs 

thy cobbler-bard. 

Thus, O Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region far 

away, 
As he pa'ced thy streets and court-yards, sang in 

thought his careless lay : 

Gathering from the pavement's crevice, as a flow- 
eret of the soil, 

The nobility of labor, — the long pedigree of 
toil. 



THE NORMAN BARON 



Dans les moments de la vie ou la relexion devient plus calme at plus 
profonde, oi\ I'interet et I'avarice parlent moins haut que la raison, dans 
les instants de chagrin domestique, do maladie, et de p^ril de mort, les 
nobles se repentirent de posseder des serfs, comme d'une chose peu agrd- 
able a Dieu, qui avait cre^ tons les hommes ^ son image. 

Thierry : Conquete de l'Angleterre. 

IN his chamber, weak and dying, 
Was the Norman baron lying ; 
Loud, without, the tempest thundered. 
And the castle-turret shook. 



The Norman Baron 

In this fight was Death the gainer, 
Spite of vassal and retainer, 
And the lands his sires had pknidered, 
Written in the Doomsday Book. 

By his bed a monk was seated, 
Who in humble voice repeated 
Many a prayer and pater-noster, 
From the missal on his knee ; 

And, amid the tempest pealing, 
Sounds of bells came faintly stealing, 
Bells, that from the neighboring kloster 
Rang for the Nativity. 

In the hall, the serf and vassal 

Held, that night, their Christmas wassail ; 

Many a carol, old and saintly. 

Sang the minstrels and the waits ; 

And so loud these Saxon gleemen 
Sang to slaves the songs of freemen. 
That the storm was heard but faintly, 
Knocking at the castle-gates. 

Till at length the laj's they chanted 
Reached the chamber terror-haunted. 
Where the monk, with accents holy, 
Whispered at the baron's ear. 



-^l 



24 The Norman Baron 

Tears upon his eyelids glistened, 
As he paused awhile and listened, 
And the dying baron slowly 

Turned his weary head to hear. 

" Wassail for the kingly stranger 
Born and cradled in a manger ! 
King, like David, priest, like Aaron, 
Christ is born to set us free ! " 

And the lightning showed the sainted 
Figures on the casement painted, 
And exclaimed the shuddering baron, 
" Miserere, Domine ! " 

In that hour of deep contrition 
He beheld, with clearer vision. 
Through all outward show and fashion, 
Justice, the Avenger, rise. 

All the pomp of earth had vanished. 
Falsehood and deceit were banished. 
Reason spake more loud than passion, 
And the truth wore no disguise. 

Every vassal of his banner, 
Every serf born to his manor, 
All those wronged and wretched creatures, 
By his hand were freed again. 



Rain in Summer 2$ 

And, as on the sacred missal 
He recorded their dismissal, 
Death relaxed his iron features, 

And the monk replied, " Amen ! " 

Many centuries have been numbered 
Since in death the baron slumbered 
By the convent's sculptured portal, 
Mingling with the common dust : 

But the good deed, through the ages 
Living in historic pages. 
Brighter grows and gleams immortal, 
Unconsumed by moth or rust. 



RAIN IN SUMMER 

HOW beautiful is the rain ! 
After the dust and heat, 
In the broad and fiery street. 
In the narrow lane. 
How beautiful is the rain ! 

How it clatters along the roofs, 
Like the tramp of hoofs ! 
How it gushes and struggles out 
From the throat of the overflowing spout ! 
VOL. v. 2 



26 Rain in Snmmer 

Acro3s the window pane 

It pours and pours ; 

And swift and wide, 

With a muddy tide, 

Like a river down the gutter roars 

The rain, the welcome rain ! 

The sick man from his chamber looks 

At the twisted brooks ; 

He can feel the cool 

Breath of each little pool ; 

His fevered brain 

Grows calm again, 

And he breathes a blessing on the rain. 

From the neighboring school 

Come the boys, 

With more than their wonted noise 

And commotion ; 

And down the wet streets 

Sail their mimic fleets, 

Till the treacherous pool 

Engulfs them in its whirling 

And turbulent ocean. 

In the country, on every side, 

AVhere far and wide. 

Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide. 

Stretches the plain. 



Raiji ill Siimvicr 27 

To the dry grass and the drier grain 
How welcome is the rain ! 



In the furrowed land 

The toilsome and patient oxen stand ; i 

Lifting the yoke-encumbered head, 

With their dilated nostrils spread, 

They silently inhale 

The clover-scented gale, 

And the vapors that arise " 

From the well watered and smoking soil. j 

For this rest in the furrow after toil j 

Their large and lustrous eyes ! 

Seem to thank the Lord, 

More than man's spoken word. \ 

■ 1 

i 

Near at hand, 1 

From under the sheltering trees, 

The farmer sees '< 

His pastures, and his fields of grain, 

As they bend their tops j 

To the numberless beating drops ' 

Of the incessant rain. 

He counts it as no sin 

That he sees therein j 

Only his own thrift and gain. j 

These, and far more than these, ; 

The Poet sees ! i 



28 Rain in Summer 

He can behold 

Aquarius old 

Walking the fenceless fields of air ; 

And from each ample fold 

Of the clouds about him rolled 

Scattering everywhere 

The showery rain, 

As the farmer scatters his grain. 

He can behold 

Things manifold 

That have not yet been wholly told, — 

Have not been wholly sung nor said. 

For his thought, that never stops, 

Follows the water-drops 

Down to the graves of the dead, 

Down through chasms and gulfs profound, 

To the dreary fountain-head 

Of lakes and rivers under ground ; 

And sees them, when the rain is done, 

On the bridge of colors seven 

Climbing up once more to heaven, 

Opposite the setting sun. 

Thus the Seer, 

With vision clear, 

Sees forms appear and disappear, 

In the perpetual round of strange, 

Mysterious change 



To a Child 29 

From birth to death, from death to birth, 

From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth ; 

Till glimpses more sublime 

Of things, unseen before, 

Unto his wondering eyes reveal 

The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel 

Turning forevermore 

In the rapid and rushing river of Time. 



TO A CHILD 

T~^ EAR child ! how radiant on thy mother's knee, 
^^ With merry-making eyes and jocund smiles, 

Thou gazest at the painted tiles, 

Whose figures grace. 

With many a grotesque form and face, 

The ancient chimney of thy nursery ! 

The lady with the gay macaw. 

The dancing girl, the grave bashaw 

With bearded lip and chin ; 

And, leaning idly o'er his gate, 

Beneath the imperial fan of state, 

The Chinese mandarin. 

With what a look of proud command 
Thou shakest in thy little hand 



30 To a Child 

The coral rattle with its silver bells, 

Making a merry tune ! 

Thousands of years in Indian seas 

That coral grew, by slow degrees, 

Until some deadly and wild monsoon 

Dashed it on Coromandel's sand ! 

Those silver bells 

Reposed of yore, 

As shapeless ore, 

Far down in the deep-sunken wells 

Of darksome mines, 

In some obscure and sunless place, 

Beneath huge Chimborazo's base, 

Or Potosfs o'erhanging pines ! 

And thus for thee, O little child, 

Through many a danger and escape, 

The tall ships passed the stormy cape ; 

For thee in foreign lands remote, 

Beneath a burning, tropic clime. 

The Indian peasant, chasing the wild goat, 

Himself as swift and wild. 

In falling, clutched the frail arbute, 

The fibres of whose shallow root, 

Uplifted from the soil, betrayed 

The silver veins beneath it laid. 

The buried treasures of the miser, Time. 

But, lo ! thy door is left ajar ! 
Thou hearest footsteps from afar ! 



To a Child 31 

And, at the sound, 

Thou turnest round 

With quick and questioning eyes, 

Like one, who, in a foreign Umd, 

Beholds on every hand 

Some source of wonder and surprise ! 

And, restlessly, impatiently. 

Thou strivest, strugglest, to be free. 

The four walls of thy nursery 

Are now like prison walls to thee. 

No more thy mother's smiles. 

No more the painted tiles. 

Delight thee, nor the playthings on the floor, 

That won thy little, beating heart before ; 

Thou strugglest for the open door. 

Through these once solitary halls 

Thy pattering footstep falls. 

The sound of thy merry' voice 

Makes the old walls 

Jubilant, and they rejoice 

With the joy of thy young heart, 

O'er the light of whose gladness 

No shadows of sadness 

From the sombre background of memory start. 

Once, ah, once, within these walls. 
One whom memory oft recalls. 
The Father of his Country, dwelt. 



32 To a Child 

And yonder meadows broad and damp 
The fires of the besieging camp 
Encircled widi a burning belt. 
Up and down these echoing stairs, 
Heavy with the weight of cares, 
Sounded his majestic tread ; 
Yes, within this ver}^ room 
Sat he in those hours of gloom. 
Weary both in heart and head. 

But what are these grave thoughts to ihee ? 

Out, out ! into the open air ! 

Thy only dream is liberty. 

Thou carest little how or where. 

I see thee eager at thy play. 

Now shouting to the apples on the tree. 

With cheeks as round and red as they ; 

And now among the yellow stalks, 

Among the flowering shrubs and plants, 

As restless as the bee. 

Along the garden walks, 

The tracks of thy small carriage-wheels I trace ; 

And see at every turn how they efface 

Whole villages of sand-roofed tents, 

That rise like golden domes 

Above the cavernous and secret homes 

Of wandering and nomadic tribes of ants. 

Ah, cruel little Tamerlane, 

Who, with thy dreadful reign, 



To a Child 33 

Dost persecute and overwhelm 

These hapless Troglodytes of thy realm ! 

What ! tired already ! with those suppliant looks, 
And voice more beautiful than a poet's books, 
Or murmuring sound of water as it flows, 
Thou comest back to parley with repose ! 
This rustic seat in the old apple-tree. 
With its o'erhanging golden canopy 
Of leaves illuminate with autumnal hues. 
And shining with the argent light of dews, 
Shall for a season be our place of rest. 
Beneath us, like an oriole's pendent nest. 
From which the laughing birds have taken wing, 
By thee abandoned, hangs thy vacant swing. 
Dream-like the waters of the river gleam ; 
A sailless vessel drops adown the stream, 
And like it, to a sea as wide and deep, 
Thou driftest gently down the tides of sleep. 

child ! O new-born denizen 
Of life's great city ! on thy head 
The glory of the morn is shed, 
Like a celestial benison ! 

Here at the portal thou dost stand, 
And with thy little hand 
Thou openest the mysterious gate 
Into the future's undiscovered land. 

1 see its valves expand, 

VOL. V. 2* c 



34 To a Child 

As at the touch of Fate ! 

Into those realms of love and hate, 

Into that darkness blank and drear, 

By some prophetic feeling taught, 

I launch the bold, adventurous thought, 

Freighted with hope and fear ; 

As upon subterranean streams, 

In caverns unexplored and dark. 

Men sometimes launch a fragile bark, 

Laden with flickerino^ fire, 

And watch its swift-receding beams. 

Until at length they disappear. 

And in the distant dark expire: 

By what astrology of fear or hope 

Dare I to cast thy horoscope ! 

Like the new moon thy life appears ; 

A little strip of silver light. 

And widening outward into night 

The shadowy disk of future years ; 

And yet upon its outer rim, 

A luminous circle, faint and dim, 

And scarcely visible to us here, 

Rounds and completes the perfect sphere ; 

A prophecy and intimation, 

A pale and feeble adumbration, 

Of the great world of light, that lies 

Behind all human destinies. 



To a Child 35 

Ah ! if thy fate, with anguish fraught, 
Should be to wet the dusty soil 
With the hot tears and sweat of toil, — 
To struggle with imperious thought, 
Until the overburdened brain, 
Weary with labor, faint with pain, 
Like a jarred pendulum, retain 
Only its motion, not its power, — 
Remember, in that perilous hour, 
When most afflicted and oppressed, 
From labor there shall come forth rest. 

And if a more auspicious fate 

On thy advancing steps await. 

Still let it ever be thy pride 

To linger by the laborer's side ; 

With words of sympathy or song 

To cheer the dreary march along 

Of the great army of the poor. 

O'er desert sand, o'er dangerous moor. 

Nor to thyself the task shall be 

Without reward ; for thou shalt learn 

The wisdom early to discern 

True beauty in utility ; 

As great Pythagoras of yore. 

Standing beside the blacksmith's door, 

And hearing the hammers, as they smote 

The anvils with a different note. 

Stole from the varying tones, that hung 



36 The Occultatioji of Orion 

Vibrant on every iron tongue, 
Tlie secret of the sounding wire, 
And formed the seven-chorded lyre. 

Enough ! I will not play the Seer ; 
I will no longer strive to ope 
The mystic volume, where appear 
The herald Hope, forerunning Fear, ] 

And Fear, the pursuivant of Hope. 1 

Thy destiny remains untold ; ] 

For, like Acestes' shaft of old, \ 

The swift thought kindles as it flies, \ 

And burns to ashes in the skies. 1 



THE OCCULTATION OF ORION 

1SAW, as in a dream sublime. 
The balance in the hand of Time. 
O'er East and West its beam impended ; 
And day, with all its hours of light. 
Was slowly sinking out of sight. 
While, opposite, the scale of night 
Silently with the stars ascended. 

Like the astrologers of eld, 
In that bright vision I beheld 



The Occultation of Oiion 37 

Greater and deeper mysteries. 

I saw, with its celestial keys, 

Its chords of air, its frets of fire, 

The Samiaa's great yEolian lyre. 

Rising through all its sevenfold bars, 

From earth unto the fixed stars. 

And through the dewy atmosphere, 

Not only could I see, but hear. 

Its wondrous and harmonious strings, 

In sweet vibration, sphere by sphere, 

From Dian's circle light and near, 

Onward to vaster and wider rings, 

Where, chanting through his beard of snows, 

Majestic, mournful, Saturn goes, 

And down the sunless realms of space 

Reverberates the thunder of his bass. 

Beneath the sky's triumphal arch 
This music sounded like a march, 
And with its chorus seemed to be 
Preluding some great tragedy. 
Sirius was rising in the east ; 
And, slow ascending one by one. 
The kindling constellations shone. 
Begirt with many a blazing star. 
Stood the great giant Algebar, 
Orion, hunter of the beast ! 
His sword hung gleaming by his side, 
And, on his arm, the lion's hide 



38 The Occiiltation of Orion 

Scattered across the midnight air 
The golden radiance of its hair. 



The moon was pallid, but not faint ; 
And beautiful as some fair saint, 
Serenely moving on her way 
In hours of trial and dismay. 
As if she heard the voice of God, 
Unharmed with naked feet she trod 
Upon the hot and burning stars, 
As on the glowing coals and l)ars, 
That were to prove her strength, and try 
Her holiness and her purity. 

Thus moving on, with silent pace, 

And triumph in her sweet, pale face, 

She reached the station of Orion. 

Aghast he stood in strange alarm ! 

And suddenly from liis outstretched arm 

Down fell the red skin of the lion 

Into the river at his feet. 

His mighty club no longer beat 

The forehead of the bull ; but he 

Reeled as of yore beside the sea. 

When, blinded by (lEnopion, 

He sought the blacksmith at his forge, 

And, climbing up the mountain gorge, 

Fixed his blank eyes upon the sun. 



The Bridge 39 

Then, through the silence overhead, 

An angel with a trumpet said, 

" Forevermore, forevermore, 

The reign of violence is o'er ! " 

And, like an instrument that flings 

Its music on another's strings, 

The trumpet of the angel cast 

Upon the heavenly lyre its blast. 

And on from sphere to sphere the words 

Re-echoed down the burning chords, — 

" Forevermore, forevermore, 

The reign of violence is o'er ! " 



THE BRIDGE 

I STOOD on the bridge at midnight. 
As the clocks were striking the hour, 
And the moon rose o'er the city, 
Behind the dark church-tower. 

I saw her bright reflection 

In the waters under me, 
Like a golden goblet falling 

And sinking into the sea. 



40 The Biddge 

And far in the hazy distance 
Of that lovely night in June, 

The blaze of the flaming furnace 
Gleamed redder than the moon. 



Among the long, black rafters 

The wavering shadows lay, 
And the current that came from the ocean 

Seemed to lift and bear them away ; 

As, sweeping and eddying through them, 

Rose the belated tide, 
And, streaming into the moonlight, 

The seaweed floated wide. 

And like those waters rushing 

Among the wooden piers, 
A flood of thoughts came o'er me 

That filled my eyes with tears. 

How often, O how often, 

In the days that had gone by, 

I had stood on that bridge at midnight 
And gazed on that wave and sky ! 

How often, O how often, 

I had wished that the ebbing tide 
Would bear me away on its bosom 

O'er the ocean wild and wide ! 



TJie Bridge 41 

For my heart was hot and restless, 

And my hfe was full of care, 
And the burden laid upon me 

Seemed greater than I could bear. 

But now it has fallen from me, 

It is buried in the sea ; 
And only the sorrow of others 

Throws its shadow over me. 

Yet whenever I cross the river 
On its bridge with wooden piers, 

Like the odor of brine from the ocean 
Comes the thought of other years. 

And I think how many thousands 

Of care-encumbered men, 
Each bearing his burden of sorrow, 

Have crossed the bridge since then. 

I see the long procession 

Still passing to and fro, 
The young heart hot and restless, 

And the old subdued and slow ! 

And forever and forever, 

As long as the river flows, 
As long as the heart has passions, 

As long as life has woes ; 



42 To The Driving Cloud 

The moon and its broken reflection 
And its shadows shall appear, 

As the symbol of love in heaven, 
And its wavering image here. 



TO THE DRIVING CLOUD 

GLOOMY and dark art thou, O chief of the 
mighty Omahas ; 

Gloomy and dark as the driving cloud, whose 
name thou hast taken ! 

Wrapt in thy scarlet blanket, I see thee stalk 
through the city's 

Narrow and populous streets, as once by the mar- 
gin of rivers 

Stalked those birds unknown, that liave left us 
only their footprints. 

What, in a few short years, will remain of thy race 
but the footprints ? 

How canst thou walk these streets, who hast trod 

the green turf of the prairies ? 
How canst thou breathe this air, who hast breathed 

the sweet air of the mountains ? 
Ah ! 't is in vain that with lordly looks of disdain 

thou dost challenge 



To The Driving Cloud 43 

Looks of disdain in return, and question these walls 

and these pavements, 
Claiming the soil for thy hunting-grounds, while 

down-trodden millions 
Starve in the garrets of Europe, and crj from its 

caverns that they, too, 
Have been created heirs of the earth, and claim its 

division ! 

Back, then, back to thy woods in the regions west 

of the Wabash ! 
There as a monarch thou reignest. In autumn the 

leaves of the maple 
Pave the floors of thy palace-halls with gold, and 

in summer 
Pine-trees waft through its chambers the odorous 

breath of their branches. 
There thou art strong and great, a hero, a tamer 

of horses ! 
There thou chasest the stately stag on the banks 

of the Elkhorn, 
Or by the roar of the Running-Water, or where the 

Omaha 
Calls thee, and leaps through the wild ravine like 

a brave of the Blackfeet ! 

Hark ! what murmurs arise from the heart of those 

mountainous deserts ? 
Is it the cry of the Foxes and Crows, or the 

mighty Behemoth, 



44 ^ the Driving Cloud 

Who, unharmed, on his tusks once caught the bohs 

of the thunder, 
And now lurks in his lair to destroy the race of the 

red man ? 
Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the Crows 

and the Foxes, 
Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the tread 

of Behemoth, 
Lo ! the big thunder-canoe, that steadily breasts 

the Missouri's 
Merciless current ! and yonder, afar on the prai- 
ries, the camp-fires 
Gleam through the night ; and the cloud of dust in 

the gray of the daybreak 
Marks not the buffalo's track, nor the Mandan's 

dexterous horse-race ; 
It is a caravan, whitening the desert where dwell 

the Camanches ! 
Ha! how the breath of these Saxons and Celts, 

like the blast of the east-wind, 
Drifts evermore to the west the scanty smokes of 

thy wigwams ! 



SONGS 



SEAWEED 

WHEN descends on the Atlantic 
The gigantic 
Storm-wind Ox^ the equinox, 
Landward in his wrath he scourges 

The toihng surges, 
Laden with seaweed from the rocks : 

From Bermuda's reefs ; from edges 

Of sunken ledges, 
In some far-off, bright Azore ; 
From Bahama, and the dashing, 

Silver-flashing 
Surges of San Salvador ; 

From the tumbling surf, that buries 

The Orkneyan skerries, 
Answering the hoarse Hebrides ; 
And from wrecks of ships, and drifting 

Spars, uplifting 
On the desolate, rainy seas ; — 

Ever drifting, drifting, drifting 
On the shifting 



43 Seaweed 

Currents of the restless main ; 
Till in sheltered coves, and reaches 

Of sandy beaches, 
All have found repose again. 

So when storms of wild emotion 

Strike the ocean 
Of the poet's soul, erelong 
From each cave and rocky fastness, 

In its vastness, 
Floats some fragment of a song : 

From the far-off isles enchanted, 

Heaven has planted 
With the golden fruit of Truth ; 
From the flashing surf, whose vision 

Gleams Elysian 
In the tropic clime of Youth ; 

From the strong Will, and the Endeavor 

That forever 
Wrestles with the tides of Fate ; 
From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered, 

Tempest-shattered, 
Floating waste and desolate ; — 

Ever drifting, drifting, drifting 
On the shifting 



The Day is Done 49 

Currents of the restless heart ; 
Till at length in books recorded, 

They, like hoarded 
Household words, no more depart. 



THE DAY IS DONE 

THE day is done, and the darkness 
Falls from the wings of Night, 
As a feather is wafted downward 
From an eagle in his flight. 



I see the lights of the village i 

Gleam through the rain and the mist, 1 

And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me j 

That my soul cannot resist : ! 

J 

A feeling of sadness and longing, j 

That is not akin to pain, 

And resembles sorrow only ; 

As the mist resembles the rain. | 

Come, read to me some poem. 

Some simple and heartfelt lay, \ 

That shall soothe this resdess feeling, ' 

And banish the thoughts of day. ; 

VOL. V. 3 D j 



50 The Day is Done ^ 

Not from the grand old masters, j 

Not from the bards subhme, \ 

Whose distant footsteps echo 

Through the corridors of Time. ^ 

For, hke strains of martial music, \ 

Their mighty thoughts suggest 
Life's endless toil and endeavor ; 

And to-night I long for rest. I 

Read from some humbler poet, 

Whose songs gushed from his heart, ^ 

As showers from the clouds of summer, I 

Or tears from the eyelids start ; ' ■ 

Who, through long days of labor, | 

And nights devoid of ease, 
Still heard in his soul the music 

Of wonderful melodies. 

i 
I 

.\ 

Such songs have power to quiet \ 

The restless pulse of care, | 

And come like the benediction \ 

That follows after prayer. 

■j 
Then read from the treasured volume \ 

The poem of thy choice, j 

And lend to the rhyme of the poet j 

The beauty of thy voice. 1 



Afternoon in February 51 

And the night shall be filled with music, 
And the cares, that infest the day, 

Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, 
And as silently steal away. 



AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY ' 

THE day is ending, \ 

The night is descending ; ^ 1 

The marsh is frozen, ' 

The river dead. j 

Through clouds like ashes 

The red sun flashes j 

On village windows J 

That glimmer red. I 

The snow recommences ; 

The buried fences \ 

Mark no longer 

The road o'er the plain ; 

J 

While through the meadows, ' 

Like fearful shadows, 
Slowly passes 
A funeral train. 



52 To an Old Danish Song- Book \ 

The bell is pealing, 
And every feeling 

Within me responds . ' \, 

To the dismal knell ; 

Shadows are trailing, 

My heart is bewailing ; 

And toUing within ' j 

Like a funeral bell. 



TO AN OLD DANISH SONG-BOOK 



WELCOME, my old friend, 
Welcome to a foreign fireside, 
While the sullen gales of autumn 
Shake the windows. 



The ungrateful world i 

Has, it seems, dealt harshly with thee, \ 

Since, beneath the skies of Denmark, j 

First I met thee. j 

There are marks of age, ,; 

There are thumb-marks on thy margin, ' 

Made by hands that clasped thee rudely. 
At the alehouse. i 



To an Old Danish Song- Book 53 

Soiled and dull thou art ; 
Yellow are thy time-worn pages, 
As the russet, rain-molested 
Leaves of autumn. 

Thou art stained with wine 
Scattered from hilarious goblets, 
As the leaves with the libations 
Of Olympus. 

Yet dost thou recall 
Days departed, half-forgotten. 
When in dreamy youth I wandered 
By the Baltic, — 

When I paused to hear 
The old ballad of King Christian 
Shouted from suburban taverns 
In the twilight. 

Thou recallest bards. 

Who, in solitary chambers, 

And with hearts by passion wasted, 

Wrote thy pages. 

Thou recallest homes 
Where thy songs of love and friendship 
Made the gloomy Northern winter 
Bright as summer. 



54 To an Old Danish Song- Book 



Once some ancient Scald, 

In his bleak, ancestral Iceland, ! 

Chanted staves of these old ballads \ 

To the Vikings. ; 

Once in Elsinore, \ 

At the court of old King Hamlet, \ 

Yorick and his boon companions \ 

Sang these ditties. ; 

i 

Once Prince Frederick's Guard j 

Sang them in their smoky barracks \ — ] 

Suddenly the English cannon ■ 

Joined the chorus ! \ 

Peasants in the field, 

Sailors on the roaring ocean, i 

Students, tradesmen, pale mechanics, \ 

All have sung them. ; 

Thou hast been their friend ; ; 
They, alas ! have left thee friendless ! 

Yet at least by one warm fireside ' \ 

Art thou welcome. ' 

And, as swallows build 

In these wide, old-fashioned chimneys, 

So thy twittering songs shall nestle 

In my bosom, — ' 



Walter von der Vogelweid 55 

Quiet, close, and warm, 
Sheltered from all molestation, 
And recalling by their voices 
Youth and travel. 



WALTER VON DER VOGELWEID 

VOGELWEID the Minnesinger, 
When he left this world of ours. 
Laid his body in the cloister. 

Under Wiirtzburg's minster towers. 

And he gave the monks his treasures, 
Gave them all with this behest : 

They should feed the birds at noontide 
Daily on his place of rest ; 

Saying, " From these wandering minstrels 
I have learned the art of sona: ; 

Let me now repay the lessons 

They have taught so well and long." 

Thus the bard of love departed ; 

And, fulfilling his desire. 
On his tomb the birds were feasted 

By the children of the choir. 



56 Walter von der Vogclweid 

Day by day, o'er tower and turret, 
In foul weather and in fair, 

Day by day, in vaster numbers, 
Flocked the poets of the air. 

On the tree whose heavy branches 
Overshadowed all the place, 

On the pavement, on the tombstone, 
On the poet's sculptured face, 

On the cross-bars of each window. 
On the lintel of each door. 

They renewed the War of Wartburg, 
Which the bard had fought before. 

There they sang their merry carols. 
Sang their lauds on every side ; 

And the name their voices uttered 
Was the name of Vogelweid. 

Till at length the portly abbot 

Murmured, " Why this waste of food ? 

Be it changed to loaves henceforward 
For our fasting brotherhood." 

Then in vain o'er tower and turret, 
From the walls and woodland nests. 

When the minster bells rang noontide, 
Gathered the unwelcome guests. 



Drinking Song 57 

Then in vain, with cries discordant, 
Clamorous round the Gothic spire. 

Screamed the feathered Minnesingers 
For the children of the choir. 

Time has long effaced the inscriptions 
On the cloister's funeral stones, 

And tradition only tells us 

Where repose the poet's bones. 

But around the vast cathedral. 

By sweet echoes multiplied. 
Still the birds repeat the legend, 

And the name of Vogelweid. 



DRINKING SONG 

INSCRIPTION FOR AN ANTIQUE PITCHER 

COME, old friend ! sit down and listen ! 
From the pitcher, placed between us, 
How the waters laugh and glisten 
In the head of old Silenus ! 

Old Silenus, bloated, drunken, 

Led by his inebriate Satyrs ; 
On his breast his head is sunken. 

Vacantly he leers and chatters. 



58 Drinking Soiig 

Fauns with youthful Bacchus follow ; 

Ivy crowns that brow supernal 
As the forehead of Apollo, 

And possessing youth eternal. 

Round about him, fair Bacchantes, 
Bearing cymbals, flutes, and thyrses, 

Wild from Naxian groves, or Zante's 
Vineyards, sing delirious verses. 

Thus he won, through all the nations, 
Bloodless victories, and the farmer 

Bore, as trophies and oblations. 

Vines for banners, ploughs for armor. 

Judged by no o'erzealous rigor, 

Much this mystic throng expresses : 

Bacchus was the type of vigor, 
And Silenus of excesses. 

These are ancient ethnic revels, 
Of a faith long since forsaken ; 

Now the Satyrs, changed to devils, 
Frighten mortals wine-o'ertaken. 

Now to rivulets from the mountains 
Point the rods of fortune-tellers ; 

Youth perpetual dwells in fountains, — 
Not in flasks, and casks, and cellars. 



Drinking Song 59 

Claudius, though he sang of flagons 

And huge tankards filled with Rhenish, 

From that fiery blood of dragons 
Never would his own replenish. 

Even Redi, though he chaunted 

Bacchus in the Tuscan valleys. 
Never drank the wine he vaunted 

In his dithyrambic sallies. 

Then with water fill the pitcher 

Wreathed about with classic fables ; 

Ne'er Falernian threw a richer 
Light upon Lucullus' tables. 

Come, old friend, sit down and listen ! 

As it passes thus between us. 
How its wavelets laugh and glisten 

In the head of old Silenus ! 



6o The Old Clock on the Stairs 



THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS 

L'^ternite est une pendule, dont le balancier dit et redit sans cesse ces 
deux mots seulement, dans le silence des tomb^aux : '' Toujours ! jamais I 
Jamais ! toujours ! " 

Jacqi'es Bridain'e. 

SOMEWHAT back from the village street 
Stands the old-fashioned country-seat. 
Across its antique portico 
Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw ; 
And from its station in the hall 
An ancient timepiece says to all, — 
" Forever — never ! 
Never — forever ! " 

Half-way up the stairs it stands, 

And points and beckons with its hands 

From its case of massive oak, 

Like a monk, who, under his cloak, 

Crosses himself, and sighs, alas ! 

With sorrowful voice to all who pass, — 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 

By day its voice is low and light ; 
But in the silent dead of night, 



The Old Clock on the Stairs 6i 



Distinct as a passing footstep's fall, 
It echoes along the vacant hall, 
Along the ceiling, along the floor, 
And seems to say, at each chamber-door, 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 



Through days of sorrow and of mirth, 
Through days of death and days of birth. 
Through every swift vicissitude 
Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, 
And as if, like God, it all things saw, 
-It calmly repeats those words of awe, — 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 

In that mansion used to be 

Free-hearted Hospitality ; 

His great fires up the chimney roared j 

The stranger feasted at his board ; 

But, like the skeleton at the feast. 

That warning timepiece never ceased, — 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 

There groups of merry children played. 
There youths and maidens dreaming strayed ; 
O precious hours ! O golden prime, 
And affluence of love and time ! 



62 TJie Old Clock .0)1 ilic Stairs 

Even as a miser counts his gold, 

Those hours the ancient timepiece told, — 

" Forever — ne\er ! 

Never — forever ! " 

From that chamber, clothed in vv'hite, 
The bride came» forth on her wedding night ; 
There, in that silent room below, 
The dead lay in his shroud of snow ; 
And in the hush that followed the prayer. 
Was heard the old clock on the stair, — 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 

All are scattered now and fled. 
Some are married, some are dead ; 
And when I ask, with throbs of pain, 
" Ah ! when shall they all meet again ? " 
As in the days long since gone by. 
The ancient timepiece makes reply, — 

" Forever — never ! 

Never — forever ! " 

Never here, forever there. 

Where all parting, pain, and care. 

And death, and time shall disappear, — 

Forever there, but never here ! 

The horologe of Eternity 

Sayeth this incessantly, — 

" Forever — never I 

Never — forever ! " 



The Arrow, and the Song 63 



THE ARROW AND THE SONG 

I SHOT an arrow into the air, 
It fell to earth, I l(new not where ; 
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight 
Could not follow it in its flight. 

I breathed a song into the air, 
It fell to earth, I knew not where ; 
For who has sight so keen and strong, 
That it can follow the flight of song ? 

Long, long afterward, in an oak 
I found the arrow, still unbroke ; 
And the song, from beginning to end, 
I found again in the heart of a friend. 



SONNETS 



THE EVENING STAR 

LO ! in the painted oriel of the West, 
Whose panes the sunken sun incarnadines, 
Like a fair lady at her casement, shines 
The evening star, the star of love and rest 1 

And then anon she doth herself divest 
Of all her radiant garments, and rechnes 
Behind the sombre screen of yonder pines, 
With slumber and soft dreams of love oppressed. 

O my beloved^ my sweet Hesperus ! 

My morning and my evening star of love ! 
My best and gentlest lady ! even thus, 

As that fair planet in the sky above. 
Dost thou retire unto thy rest at night. 
And from thy darkened window fades the light. 



AUTUMN 

THOU comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain. 
With banners, by great gales incessant fanned, 
Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand, 
And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain ! 
Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne, 



6S Da/iU 

Upon thy bridge of gold ; diy royal hand 
Outstretched with benedictions o'er the land, 
Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain ! 

Thy shield is the red harvest moon, suspended 
So long beneath the heaven's o'erhanging eaves ; 
Thy steps are by the farmer's prayers attended ; 

Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves ; 
And, following thee, in thy ovation splendid, 
Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden 
leaves ! 



T 



DANTE 

use AN, that wanderest through the realms 
of gloom. 

With thoughtful pace, and sad, majestic eyes, 
Stern thoughts and awful from thy soul arise. 
Like Farinata from his fiery tomb. 

Thy sacred song is like the trump of doom ; 
Yet in thy heart what human sympathies. 
What soft compassion glows, as in the skies 
The tender stars their clouded lamps relume ! 

Methinks I see thee stand, with pallid cheeks, 
By Fra Hilario in his diocese, 
As up the convent-walls, in golden streaks, 

The ascending sunbeams mark the day's decrease ; 
And, as he asks what there the stranger seeks, 
Thy voice along the cloister whispers, " Peace ! " 



TR AN S L AT IONS 



THE HEMLOCK TREE 

FROM THE (iERMAN 

O HEMLOCK tree ! O hemlock tree ! how 
faithful are thy branches ! 
Green not alone in summer time, 
But in the winter's frost and rime ! 
O hemlock tree ! O hemlock tree ! how faithful are 
thy branches ! 

O maiden fair ! O maiden fair ! how faithless is 
thy bosom ! 
To love me in prosperity, 
And leave me in adversity ! 
O maiden fair ! O maiden fair ! how faithless is 
thy bosom ! 

The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak'st for 
thine example ! 
So long as summer laughs she sings, 
But in the autumn spreads her wings. 
The nightingale, the nightingale, thou tak'st for 
thine example ! 



^2 Annie of Thar aw 

The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror 
of thy falsehood ! 
It flows so long as falls the rain. 
In drought its springs soon dry again. 
The meadow brook, the meadow brook, is mirror 
of thy falsehood ! 



ANNIE OF THARAW 

FROM THE LOn* GERMAN OF SIMON DACH 

ANNIE of Tharaw, my true love of old, 
She is my life, and my goods, and my gold. 

Annie of Tharaw, her heart once again 
To me has surrendered in joy and in pain. 

Annie of Tharaw, my riches, my good. 
Thou, O my soul, my flesh and my blood ! 

Then come the wild weather, come sleet or come 

snow, 
We will stand by each other, however it blow. 

Oppression, and sickness, and sorrow, and pain 
Shall be to our true love as .links to the chain. 



Annie of Tharaw 73 

As the palm tree standeth so straight and so tall, 
The more the hail beats, and the more the rains 
fall, — 

So love in our hearts shall grow mighty and strong, 
Through crosses, through sorrows, through mani- 
fold wrong. 

Shouldst thou be torn from me to wander alone 
In a desolate land where the sun is scarce 
known, — 

Through forests I '11 follow, and where the sea 

flows. 
Through ice, and through iron, through armies of 

foes. 

Annie of Tharaw, my light and my sun. 

The threads of our two lives are woven in one. 

Whate'er I have bidden thee thou hast obeyed. 
Whatever forbidden thou hast not gainsaid. 

How in the turmoil of life can love stand, 
Where there is not one heart, and one mouth, and 
one hand ? 

Some seek for dissension, and trouble, and strife ; 
Like a dog and a cat live such man and wife. 

VOL. v. 4 



74 Statue over the Cathedra! Door 

Annie of Tharaw, such is not our love ; 
Thou art my lambkin, my chick, and my dove. 

Whate'er my desire is, in thine may be seen ; 

I am king of the household, and thou art its queen. 

It is this, O my Annie, my heart's sweetest rest, 
That makes of us twain but one soul in one breast. 

This turns to a heaven the hut where we dwell ; 
While wrangling soon changes a home to a hell. 



THE STATUE OVER THE CATHEDRAL 
DOOR 

FROM THE GERMAN OF fULIUS MOSEN 



FORMS of saints and kings are standing 
The cathedral door above ; 
Yet I saw but one among them 

Who hath soothed my soul with love. 



In his mantle, — wound about him, 
As their robes the sowers wind, — 

Bore he swallows and their fledglings, 
Flowers and weeds of every kind. 



The Legend of tJie Crossbill 75 \ 

I 

And so stands he calm and childlike, ; 

High in wind and tempest wild ; j 

O, were I like him exalted, i 

I would be like him, a child ! ' 

And my songs, — green leaves and blossoms, — j 

To the doors of heaven would bear, j 

Calling, even in storm and tempest, j 

Round me still these birds of air. \ 



THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL i 

' i 

FROM THE GERMAN OF JULIUS MOSEN i 

I 

ON the cross the dying Saviour '\ 

Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm. 
Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling 1 

In his pierced and bleeding palm. j 

i 

And by all the world forsaken, 1 



Sees he how with zealous care 
At the ruthless nail of iron 
A little bird is striving there. 

Stained with blood and never tiring, 
With its beak it doth not cease. 

From the cross 'twould free the Saviour, 
Its Creator's Son release. 



y6 The Sea hath its Pearls 

And the Saviour speaks in mildness : 
" Blest be thou of all the good ! 

Bear, as token of this moment, 
Marks of blood and holy rood ! " 

And that bird is called the crossbill ; 

Covered all with blood so clear, 
In the groves of pine it singeth 

Songs, like legends, strange to hear. 



THE SEA HATH ITS PEARLS 

FROM THE GERMAN OF HEINRICH HEINE 

THE sea hath its pearls, 
The heaven hath its stars ; 
But my heart, my heart, 
My heart hath its love. 

Great are the sea and the heaven ; 

Yet greater is my heart. 
And fairer than pearls and stars 

Flashes and beams my love. 

Thou little, youthful maiden. 

Come unto my great heart ; 
My heart, and the sea, and the heaven 

Are melting away with love ! 



Poetic Aphorisms yy 



POETIC APHORISMS 

FROM THE SINNGEDICHTE OF FRIEDRICH VON LOCxAU 

SEVENTEENTH CENTURY 

MONEY 

Whereunto is money good ? 
Who has it not wants hardihood, 
Who has it has much trouble and care, 
Who once has had it has despair. 

THE BEST MEDICINES 

Joy and Temperance and Repose 
Slam the door on the doctor's nose. 

SIN 

Man-like is it to fall into sin, 
Fiend-like is it to dwell therein, 
Christ-like is it for sin to grieve, 
God-like is it all sin to leave. 

POVERTY AND BLINDNESS 

A BLIND man is a poor man, and blind a poor 

man is ; 
For the former seeth no man, and the latter no 

man sees. 



78 Poetic Aphorisms 

LAW OF LIP^E 

Live I, so live I, 
To my Lord heartily, 
To my Prince faithfully, 
To my Neighbor honestly. 
Die I, so die L 

CREEDS 

Lutheran, Popish, Calvinistic, all these creeds 
and doctrines three 

Extant are ; but still the doubt is, where Chris- 
tianity may be. 

THE RESTLESS HEART 

A MILLSTONE and the human heart are driven ever 
round ; 

If they have nothing else to grind, they must them- 
selves be ground. 

CHRISTIAN LOVE 

Whilom Love was like a fire, and warmth and 

comfort it bespoke ; 
But, alas ! it now is quenched, and only bites us, 

like the smoke. 



Poetic Aphorisms 79 

ART AND TACT 

Intelligence and courtesy not always are com- 
bined ; 
Often in a wooden house a golden room we find. 

RETRIBUTION 

Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they 
grind exceeding small ; 

Though with patience he stands waiting, with ex- 
actness grinds he all. 

TRUTH 

When by night the frogs are croaking, kindle but 

a torch's fire. 
Ha ! how soon they all are silent ! Thus Truth 

silences the liar. 

RHYMES 

If perhaps these rhymes of mine should sound not 
well in strangers' ears, 

They have only to bethink them that it happens so 
with theirs ; 

For so long as words, like mortals, call a father- 
land their own, 

They will be most highly valued where they are 
best and longest known. 



CURFEW 



VOL. V. 



I. 



SOLEMNLY, mournfully, 
Dealing its dole, 
The Curfew Bell 
Is beginning to toll. 

Cover the embers, 

And put out the light ; 

Toil comes with the morning. 
And rest with the night. 

Dark grow the windows, 
And quenched is the fire ; 

Sound fades into silence, — 
All footsteps retire. 

No voice in the chambers. 
No sound in the hall ! 

Sleep and oblivion 
Reign over all ! 



84 Curfew 



II. 



THE book is completed, - 
And closed, like the day ; 
And the hand that has written it 
Lays it away. 

Dim grow its fancies ; 

Forgotten they lie ; 
Like coals in the ashes, 

They darken and die. 

Song sinks into silence, 
. The story is told, 
The windows are darkened, 
The hearth-stone is cold. 

Darker and darker 

The black shadows fall ; 
Sleep and oblivion 

Reign over all. 



EVANGELI NE 



A TALE OF ACADIE 



847 



EVANGELINE 

THIS is the forest primeval. Tlie murmuring 
pines and the hemlocks, 

Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indis- 
tinct in the twilight, 

Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and pro- 
phetic. 

Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on 
their bosoms. 

Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neigh- 
boring ocean 

Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the 
wail of the forest. 

This is the forest primeval ; but where are the 
hearts that beneath it 

Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the wood- 
land the voice of the huntsman ? 

Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of 
Acadian farmers, — 

Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water 
the woodlands. 



SS Evangeline 

Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an 

image of heaven ? 
Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers 

forever departed ! 
Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty 

blasts of October 
Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprii.Llc 

them far o'er the ocean. 
Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful vil- 
y lage of Grand-Pre'. 

Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and en- 
dures, and is patient, 

Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of 
woman's devotion, 

List to the mournful tradition still sung by the 
pines of the forest ; 

List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the 
happy. 



PART THE FIRST 



I. 



IN the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin 
of Minas, 
Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand- 

Pre 
Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched 

to the eastward, 
Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks 

without number. 
Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised 

with labor incessant. 
Shut out the turbulent tides ; but at stated sea- 
sons the flood-gates 
Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will 

o'er the meadows. 
West and south there were fields of flax, and 

orchards and cornfields 
Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and 

away to the northward 
Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on 

the mountains 



90 Evangeline 

Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the 

mighty Atlantic 
Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their 

station descended. 
There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Aca- 
dian village. 
Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak 

and of hemlock, 
Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the 

reign of the Henries. 
Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows ; 

and gables projecting 
Over the basement below jDrotected and shaded 

the door-way. 
There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when 

brightly the sunset 
Lighted the village street, and gilded the vanes 

on the chimneys. 
Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and 

in kirtles 
Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning 

the golden 
Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles 

within doors 
Mingled their sound with the whir of the wheels 

and the songs of the maidens. 
Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, 

and the children 
Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended 

to bless them. 



Evangeline 9 1 

Reverend walked he among them ; and up rose 

matrons and maidens, 
Haihng his slow approach with words of affection- 
ate welcome. 
Then came the laborers home from the field, and 

serenely the sun sank 
Down to his rest, and twilight prevciiled. Anon 

from the belfry 
Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of 

the village 
Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense 

ascending. 
Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace 

and contentment. 
Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian 

farmers, — 
Dwelt in the love of God and of man. Alike 

were they free from 
Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the 

vice of republics. 
Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to 

their windows ; 
But their dwellings were open as day and the 

hearts of the owners ; 
There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived 

in abundance. 

Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer 
the Basin of Minas, 



92 Evangeline 

Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of 

Grand-Pre, 
Dwelt on his goodly acres ; and with him, direct- 
ing his household, 
Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride 

of the village. 
Stalworth and stately in form was the man of sev- 
enty winters ; 
Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered 

with snow-flakes ; 
White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks 

as brow^n as the oak-leaves. 
Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen 

summers. 
Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on 

the thorn by the wayside. 
Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the 

brown shade of her tresses ! 
Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that 

feed in the meadows. 
When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers 

at noontide 
Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah ! fair in sooth was 

the maiden. 
Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the 

. bell from its turret 
Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest 

with his hyssop 
Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings 

upon them, 



Evangeline 93 

Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet 
of beads and her missal, 

Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, 
and the ear-rings, 

Brought in the olden time from France, and since, 
as an heirloom, 

Handed down from mother to child, throu2:h lonaf 
generations. 

But a celestial brightness — a more ethereal beau- 
ty- 
Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, 
after confession, 

Homeward serenely she walked with God's bene- 
diction upon her. 

When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing 
of exquisite music. 

Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of 

the farmer 
Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea ; 

and a shady 
Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine 

wreathing around it. 
Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath ; 

and a footpath 
Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in 

the meadow. 
Under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by 

a penthouse, 



94 Evangeline 

Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the 

roadside, 
Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image 

of Mary. 
Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the 

well with its moss-grown 
Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough 

for the horses. 
Shielding the house from storms, on die north, 

were the barns and the farm-yard, 
There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the 

antique ploughs and the harrows ; 
There were the folds for the sheep ; and there, 

in his feathered seraglio. 
Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, 

with the selfsame 
Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent 

Peter. 
Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a 

village. In each one 
Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch ; and 

a staircase. 
Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous 

corn-loft. 
There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and 

innocent inmates 
Murmuring ever of love ; while above in the vari- 
ant breezes 
Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang 

of mutation. 



Evangeline 95 

Thus, at peace with God and the world, the 
farmer of Grand-Pre 
Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed 

his household. 
Many a youth, as he knelt in the church and 

opened his missal, 
Fixed his eyes upon her, as the saint of his deepest 

devotion ; 
Happy was he who might touch her hand or the 

hem of her garment ! 
Many a suitor came to her door, by the darkness 

befriended. 
And, as he knocked and waited to hear the sound 

of her footsteps, 
Knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the 

knocker of iron ; 
Or at the joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the 

village. 
Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance as 

he whispered 
Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the 

music. 
But, among all who came, young Gabriel only was 

welcome ; 
Gabriel Lajeunesse, the son of Basil the black- 
smith. 
Who was a mighty man in the village, and honored 

of all men ; 
For, since the birth of time, throughout all ages 

and nations, 



96 Evangeline 

Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by 

the people. 
Basil was Benedict's friend. Their children from 

earliest childhood 
Grew up together as brother and sister; and 

Father Felician, 
Priest and pedagogue both in the village, had 

taught them their letters 
Out of the selfsame book, with the h}-nins of the 

church and the plain-song. 
But when the hymn was sung, and the daily lesson 

completed. 
Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil the 

blacksmith. 
There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes 

to behold him 
Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as 

a plaything, 
Nailing the shoe in its place ; while near him the 

tire of the cart-wheel 
Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of 

cinders. 
Oft on autumnal eves, when without in the gather- 
ing darkness 
Bursting with light seemed the smithy, through 

every cranny and crevice, 
Warm by the forge within they watched the labor- 
ing bellows, 
And as its panting ceased, and the sparks expired 

in the ashes. 



Evangeline 97 

Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going 

into the chapel. 
Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of 

the eagle, 
Down the hillside bounding, they glided away o'er 

the meadow. 
Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests 

on the rafters, 
Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, 

which the swallow 
Brings from the shore of the sea to restore the 

sight of its fledglings ; 
Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of 

the swallow ! 
Thus passed a few swift years, and they no longer 

were children. 
He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face 

of the morning. 
Gladdened the earth with its light, and ripened 

thought into action. 
She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes 

of a woman. 
" Sunshine of Saint Eulalie " was she called ; for 

that was the sunshine 
Which, as the farmers believed, would load their 

orchards with apples ; 
She, too, would bring to her husband's house 

delight and abundance. 
Filling it full of love and the ruddy faces of children. 
VOL. V. =; '^- 



98 Evangeline 



II. 



Now had the season returned, when the nights 

grow colder and longer, 
And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion 

enters. 
Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, 

• from the ice-bound, 
Desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical 

islands. 
Harvests were gathered in ; and wild with the 

winds of September 
Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old 

with the angel. 
All the signs foretold a winter long and inclem- 
ent. 
Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded 

their honey 
Till the hives overflowed ; and the Indian hunters 

asserted 
Cold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of 

the foxes. 
Such was the advent of autumn. Then followed 

that beautiful season, 
Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer 

of All-Saints ! 



Evangeline 99 

Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light ; 

and the landscape 
Lay as if new-created in all the freshness of child- 
hood. 
Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless 

heart of the ocean 
Was for a moment consoled. All sounds were in 

harmony blended. 
Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in 

the farm-yards, 
Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing 

of pigeons, 
All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, 

and the great sun 
Looked with the eye of love through the golden 

vapors around him ; 
While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet 

and yellow, 
Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering 

tree of the forest 
Flashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned 

with mantles and jewels. 

Now recommenced the reign of rest and affec- 
tion and stillness. 

Day with its burden and heat had departed, and 
twilight descending 

Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the 
herds to the homestead. 



roo Evangeline 

Pawing the ground they came, and resting their 

necks on each other, 
And with their nostrils distended inhaUng the 

freshness of evening. 
Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful 

heifer, 
Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that 

waved from her collar. 
Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human" 

affection. 
Then came the shepherd back with his bleating 

ilocks from the seaside, 
Where was their favorite pasture. Behind them 

followed the watch-dog. 
Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride 

of his instinct. 
Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and 

superbly 
Waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the 

stragglers ; 
Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept ; 

their protector. 
When from the forest at night, through the starry 

silence, the wolves howled. 
Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains 

from the marshes. 
Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its 

odor. 
Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their 

manes and their fetlocks, 



Evangeline loi 



While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and 

ponderous saddles, 
Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with 

tissels of crimson, 
Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with 

blossoms. 
Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded 

their udders 
Unto the milkmaid's hand ; whilst loud and in 

regular cadence 
Into the sounding pails the foaming streamlets 

descended. 
Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard 

in the farm-yard. 
Echoed back by the barns. Anon they sank into 

stillness ; 
Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of 

the barn-doors, 
Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was 

silent. 

In-doors, warm by the wide-mouthed fireplace, 
idly the farmer 

Sat in his elbow-chair, and watched how the flames 
and the smoke-wreaths 

Struggled together like foes in a burning city. 
Behind him. 

Nodding and mocking along the wall, with ges- 
tures fantastic, 



1 02 Evangeline 

Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away 

into darkness. 
Faces, clumsily carved in oak, on the back of his 

arm-chair 
Laughed in the flickering light, and the pewter 

plates on the dresser 
Caught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies 

the sunshine. 
Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of 

Christmas, 
Such as at home, in the olden time, his fathers 

before him 
Sang in their Norman orchards and bright Bur- 

gundian vineyards. 
Close at her father's side was the gentle Evan- 
geline seated. 
Spinning flax for the loom, that stood in the corner 

behind her. 
Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its 

diligent shuttle, 
AVhile the monotonous drone of the wheel, like the 

drone of a bagpipe, 
Followed the old man's song, and united the frag- 
ments together. 
As in a church, when the chant of the choir at 

intervals ceases, 
Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the 

priest at the altar, 
So, in ' each pause of the song, with measured 

motion the clock clicked. 



Evangeline 103 

Thus as they sat, there were footsteps heard, 
and, suddenly hfted, 
Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung 

back on its hinges. 
Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was 

Basil the blacksmith. 
And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who 

was with him. 
" Welcome ! " the farmer exclaimed, as their foot- 
steps paused on the threshold, 
"Welcome, Basil, my friend! Come, take thy 

place on the settle 
Close by the chimney-side, which is always empty 

without thee ; 
Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box 

of tobacco ; 
Never so much thyself art thou as when through 

the curling 
Smoke of the pipe or the forge thy friendly and 

jovial face gleams 
Round and red as the harvest moon through the 

mist of the marshes." 
Then, with a smile of content, thus answered Basil 

the blacksmith. 
Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the 

fireside : — 
"Benedict Bellefontaine, thou hast ever 'thy jest 

and thy ballad ! 
Ever in cheerfullest mood art thou, when others are 

filled with 



1 04 Evangeline 

Gloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before 

them. 
Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked 

up a horseshoe." 
Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evange- 
line brought him, 
And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he 

slowly continued : — 
" Four days now are passed since the English 

ships at their anchors 
Ride in the Gaspereau s mouth, with their cannon 

pointed against us. 
What their design may be is unknown ; but all are 

commanded 
On the morrow to meet in the church, where his 

Majesty's mandate 
Will be proclaimed as law in the land. Alas ! in 

the mean time 
Many surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the 

people." 
Then made answer the farmer : — " Perhaps some 

friendlier purpose 
Brings these ships to our shores. Perhaps the 

harvests in England 
By untimely rains or untimelier heat have been 

blighted, 
And from our bursting barns they would feed their 

cattle and children." 
" Not so thinketh the folk in the village," said, 

warmly, the blacksmith, 



Evangeline 105 

Shaking his head, as in doubt ; then, heaving a 

sigh, he continued : — 
"Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau Sejour, nor 

Port Royal. 
Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on 

its outskirts. 
Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of 

to-morrow. 
Arms have been taken from us, and warlike weap- 
ons of all kinds ; 
Nothing is left but the blacksmith's sledge and the 

scythe of the mower." 
Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial 

farmer : — 
" Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our flocks 

and our corniields. 
Safer within these peaceful dikes, besieged by the 

ocean, 
Than our fathers in forts, besieged by the enemy's 

cannon. 
Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no 

shadow of sorrow 
Fall on this house and hearth ; for this is the 

night of the contract. 
Built are the house and the barn. The merry lads 

of the village 
Strongly have built them and well ; and, breaking 

the glebe round about them. 
Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food 

for a twelvemonth. 
5* 



1 06 Evangeline 

Rene Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers 

and inkhorn. 
Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy 

of our children ? " 
As apart by the window she stood, with her hand 

in her lover's. 
Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her 

father had spoken. 
And, as they died on his lips, the worthy notary 

entered. 



III. 



Bent like a laboring oar, that toils in the surf of 

the ocean, 
Bent, but not broken, by age was the form of the 

notary public ; 
Shocks of yellow hair, like the silken floss of the 

maize, hung 
Over his shoulders ; his forehead was high ; and 

glasses with horn bows 
Sat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom 

supernal. 
Father of twenty children was he, and more than a 

hundred 
Children's children rode on his knee, and heard 

his great watch tick. 



Evangeline 107 

Four long years in the times of the war had he lan- 
guished a captive, 

Suffering much in an old French fort as the friend 
of the English. 

Now, though warier grown, without all guile or sus- 
picion, 

Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, 
and childlike. 

He was beloved by all, and most of all by the chil- 
dren ; 

For he told them tales of the Loup-garou in the 
forest, 

And of the goblin that came in the night to water 
the horses, 

And of the white Letiche, the ghost of a child who 
unchristened 

Died, and was doomed to haunt unseen the cham- 
bers of children ; 

And how on Christmas eve the oxen talked in the 
stable, 

And how the fever was cured by a spider shut up 
in a nutshell, 

And of the marvellous powers of four-leaved clover 
and horseshoes, 

With whatsoever else was writ in the lore of the 
village. 

Then up rose from his seat by the fireside Basil 
the blacksmith. 

Knocked from his pipe the ashes, and slowly ex- 
tending his right hand, 



io8 Evangeline 



" Father Leblanc," he exclaimed, " thou hast heard 
the talk in the village, 

And, perchance, canst tell us some news of these 
ships and their errand." 

Then with modest demeanor made answer the no- 
tary public, — - 

" Gossip enough have I heard, in sooth, yet am 
never the wiser ; 

And what their errand may be I know not better 
than others. 

Yet am I not of those who imagine some evil inten- 
tion 

Brings them here, for we are at peace ; and why 
then molest us ? " 

" God's name ! " shouted the hasty and somewhat 
irascible blacksmith ; 

" Must we in all things look for the how, and the 
why, and the wherefore ? 

Daily injustice is done, and might is the right of 
the strongest ! " 

But, without heeding his warmth, continued the 
notar\' public, — 

" Man is unjust, but God is just ; and finally jus- 
tice 

Triumphs ; and well I remember a story, that often 
consoled me. 

When as a captive I lay in the old French fort at 
Port Royal." 

This was the old man's favorite tale, and he loved 
to repeat it 



Evangeline 109 

When his neighbors complained that any injustice 

was done them. 
" Onee jn an a icient city, whose name I no longer 

remember, 
Raised aloft on a column, a brazen statue of Jus- 
tice 
Stood in the public square, upholding the scales in 

its left hand, 
And in its right a sword, as an emblem that justice 

presided 
Over the laws of the land, and the hearts and 

homes of the people. 
Even the birds had built their nests in the scales 

of the balance. 
Having no fear of the sword that flashed in the 

sunshine above them. 
But in the course of time the laws of the land were 

corrupted ; 
Might took the place of right, and the weak: were 

oppressed, and the mighty 
Ruled with an iron rod. Then it chanced in a 

nobleman's palace 
That a necklace of pearls was lost, and erelong a 

suspicion 
Fell on an orphan girl who lived as maid in the 

household. 
She, after form of trial condemned to die on the 

scaffold, 
Patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue of 

Justice. 



I lo Evangeline 

As to her Father in heaven her innocent spirit 

ascended, 
Lo ! o'er the cit}' a tempest rose ; and the bolts of 

the thunder 
Smote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath 

from its left hand 
Down on the pavement below the clattering scales 

of the balance, 
And in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a 

magpie, 
Into whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls 

was inwoven." 
Silenced, but not convinced, wdien the story was 

ended, the blacksmith 
Stood like a man who fain would speak, but findeth 

no language ; 
All his thoughts were congealed into lines on his 

face, as the vapors 
Freeze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes 

in the winter. 

Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the 

table, 
Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with 

home-brewed 
Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in 

the village of Grand-Pre ; 
While from his pocket the notary drew his papers 

and inkhorn, 



Evano-eline 1 1 1 

o 

Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of 

the parties, 
Naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep 

and in cattle. 
Orderly all things proceeded, and duly and well 

wiire completed, 
And the great seal of the law was set like a sun on 

the margin. 
Then from his leathern pouch the farmer threw on 

the table 
Three times the old man's fee in solid pieces of 

silver ; 
And the notary rising, and blessing the bride and 

the bridegroom. 
Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their 

welfare. 
Wiping the foam from his lip, he solemnly bowed . 

and departed. 
While in silence the others sat and mused by the 

fireside. 
Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of 

its corner. 
Soon was the game begun. In friendly contention 

the old men 
Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful ma- 
noeuvre, 
Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach 

was made in the king-row. 
Meanwhile apart, in die twilight gloom of a win- 
dow's embrasure, 



1 1 2 Evangeline 

Sat the lovers, and whispered together, beholding 

the moon rise 
Over the pallid sea and the silvery mist of the 

meadows. 
Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of 

heaven, 
Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of 

the angels. 

Thus was the evening passed. Anon the bell 

from the belfry 
Rang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, and 

straightway 
Rose the guests and departed ; and silence reigned 

in the household. 
Many a farewell word and sweet good-night on the 

door-step 
Lingered long in Evangeline's heart, and filled it 

with gladness. 
Carefully then were covered the embers that glow^ed 

on the hearth-stone. 
And on the oaken stairs resounded the tread of the 

farmer. 
Soon with a soundless step the foot of Evangeline 

followed. 
Up the staircase moved a luminous space in the 

darkness, 
Lighted less by the lamp than the shining face of 

the maiden. 



Evdugeline 1 1 3 

Silent she passed the hall, and entered the door of 

her chamber. 
Simple that chamber was, with its curtains of 

white, and its clothes-press 
Ample and high, on whose spacious shelves were 

carefully folded 
Linjn and woollen stuffs, by the hand of Evangeline 

woven. 
This v/as the precious dower she would bring to 

her husband in marriage, 
Better than flocks and herds, being proofs of her 

skill as a housewife. 
Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the mellow 

and radiant moonlight 
Streamed through the windows, and lighted the 

room, till the heart of the maiden 
Swelled and obeyed its power, like the tremulous 

tides of the ocean. 
Ah! she was fair, exceeding fair to behold, as she 

stood with 
Naked snow-white feet on the gleaming floor of her 

chamber ! 
Little she dreamed that below, among the trees of 

the orchard. 
Waited her lover and watched for the gleam of her 

Limp and her shadows 
Yet were Iier thoughts of him, and at times a feel- 
ing of sadness 
Passed o'er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds 

in the moonlidit 



1 1 4 Evangeline 

Flitted across the floor and darkened the room for 
a moment. 

And, as she gazed from the window, she saw se- 
renely the moon pass 

Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star fol- 
low her footsteps, 

As out of Abraham's tent 3^oung Ishmael wandered 
with Hasfar ! 



IV. 



Pleasantly rose next morn the sun on the village 

of Grand-Pre. 
Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin 

of Minas, 
Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, were 

riding at anchor. 
Life had long been astir in the village, and clamor- 
ous labor 
Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden 

gates of the morning. 
Now from the country around, from the farms and 

neighboring hamlets. 
Came in their holiday dresses the blitli^ Acadian 

peasants. 
Mr-My a glad good-morrow and jocund laugh from 

*.he young folk 



Evangeline i 1 5 

Made the bright air brighter, as up from the nu- 
merous meadows, 
Where no path could be seen but the track of 

wheels in the greensward. 
Group after group appeared, and joined, or passed 

on the highway. 
Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labor 

were silenced. 
Thronged were the streets with people ; and noisy 

groups at the house-doors 
Sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped 

together. 
Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed 

and feasted ; 
For with this simple people, who lived like brothers 

together. 
All things were held in common, and what one had 

was another's. 
Yet under Benedict's roof hospitality seemed more 

abundant : 
For Evangeline stood among the guests of her 

father ; 
Bright was her face with smiles, and words of wel- 
come and gladness 
Fell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup as 

she gave it. 

Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the 
orchard, 



1 1 6 Evangel iiie 

Stript of its golden fruit, was spread \\\i f^ast of 

betrothal. 
There in the shade of the porch were the j^riest and 

the notary seated ; 
There good Benedict sat, and sturd)- Basil the 

blacksmith. 
Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press 

and the beehives, 
Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest of 

hearts and of waistcoats. 
Shadow and light from the leaves alternately 

played on his snow-white 
Hair, as it waved in the wind ; and the jolly face 

of the fiddler 
Glowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown 

from the embers. 
Gayly the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his 

fiddle. 
Tons les Bourgeois de Chaj^tres^ and Le Carillon de 

DiDikerque^ 
And anon with his wooden shoes beat time to the 

music. 
Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying 

dances 
Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the 

meadows ; 
Old folk and young together, and chilflren min- 
gled among them. 
Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Benedict's 

daughter ! 



Evangeline 1 1 7 

Noble3l of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the 
blacksmith ! 

So passed the morning away. And lo ! with a 
summons sonorous 

Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the 
meadows a drum beat. 

Thronged erelong was the church with men. With- 
out, in the churchyard, 

Waited the women. They stood by the graves, 
and hung on the headstones 

Garlands of autumn-leaves and evergreens fresh 
from the forest. 

Then came the guard from the ships, and marching 
proudly among them 

Entered the sacred portal. With loud and disso> 
nant clangor 

Echoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceil- 
ing and casement, — 

Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous, 
portal 

Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will 
of the soldiers. 

Then uprose their commander, and spake from the 

steps of the altar. 
Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal 

commission. 
"You are convened this day," he said, "by his 
Majesty's orders. 



1 1 8 Evangeline 

Clement and kind has he been ; but how you have 
answered his kindness, 

Let your own hearts reply ! To my natural make 
and my temper 

Painful the task is I do, which to you I know must 
be grievous. 

Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of 
our monarch ; 

Namely, that all }-our lands, and dwellings, and cat- 
tle of all kinds 

Forfeited be to the crown ; and that you yourselves 
from this province 

Be transported to other lands. God grant you may 
dwell there 

Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable 
people ! 

Prisoners now I declare you ; for such is his Majes- 
ty's pleasure ! " 

As, when the air is serene in the sultry solstice of 
summer. 

Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of 
the hailstones 

Beats down the farmer's corn in the field and shat- 
ters his windows. 

Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with 
thatch from the house-roofs, 

Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their en- 
closures ; 

So on the hearts of the people descended the words 
of the speaker. 



Evangeline i 19 

Silent a moment they stood in speechless v/onder, 
and then rose 

Louder and ever louder a wail of sorrow and an- 
ger, 

And, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to 
the door-way. 

Vain was the hope of escape ; and cries and fierce 
imprecations 

Rang through the house of prayer ; and high o'er 
the heads of the others 

Rose, with his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil the 
blacksmith. 

As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the bil- 
lows. 

Flushed was his face and distorted with passion ; 
and wildly he shouted, — 

" Down with the tyrants of England ! we never 
have sworn them allegiance ! 

Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our 
homes and our harvests ! " 

More he fain would have said, but the merciless 
hand of a soldier 

Smote him upon the mouth, and dragged him down 
to the pavement. 

In the midst of the strife and tumult of angry 
contention, 
Lo ! the door of the chancel opened, and Father 
Felician 



1 20 Evangeline 

Entered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps 

of the altar. 
Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed 

into silence 
All that clamorous throng ; and thus he spake to 

his people ; 
Deep were his tones and solemn ; in accents meas- 
ured and mournful 
Spake he, as, after the tocsin's alarum, distinctly 

the clock strikes. 
"What is this that ye do, my children? v.liat mad- 
ness has seized you ? 
Forty years of my life have I labored among you, 

and taught you, 
Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one 

another ! 
Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers 

and privations ? 
Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and 

forgiveness ? 
This is the house of the Prince of Peace, and would 

you profane it 
Thus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing 

with hatred ? 
Lo ! where the crucified Christ from his cross is 

gazing upon you ! 
See ! in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and 

holy compassion ! 
Hark ! how those lips still repeat the prayer, ' O 

Father, forgive them ! ' 



Evangeline 1 2 1 

Let us repeat tint prayer in the hour when the 
wicked assail us, 

Let us repeat it now, and say, ' O Father, forgive 
them ! ' ■' 

Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the 
hearts of his people 

Sank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the 
passionate outbreak, 

While they repeated his prayer, and said, " O Fa- 
ther, forgive them ! " 

Then came the evening service. The tapers 

gleamed from the altar. 
Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest, and 

the people responded, 
Not with their lips alone, but their hearts ; and the 

Ave Maria 
Sang they, and fell on their knees, and their souls, 

with devotion translated, 
Rose on the ardot of prayer, like Elijah ascending 

to heaven. 

Meanwhile had spread in the village the tidings 

of ill, and on all sides 
Wandered, wailing, from house to house the women 

and children. 
Long at her father's door Evangeline stood, with 

her right hand 
Shielding her eyes from the level rays of the sun, 

that, descending, 

VOL. V. 6 



122 Evangeline 

Lighted the village street with mysterious splendor, 

and roofed each 
Peasant's cottage with golden thatch, and embla- 
zoned its windows. 
Long within had been spread the snow-white cloth 

on the table ; 
There stood the wheaten loaf, and the honey fra- 
grant with wild-flowers ; 
There stood the tankard of ale, and the cheese 

fresh brought from the dairy ; * 

And, at the head of the board, the great arm-chair 

of the farmer. 
Thus did Evangeline wait at her father's door, as 

the sunset 
Threw the long shadows of trees o'er the broad 

ambrosial meadows. 
Ah ! on her spirit within a deeper shadow had 

fallen. 
And from the fields of her soul a fragrance celestial 

ascended, — 
Charity, meekness, love, and hope, and forgiveness, 

and patience ! 
Then, all-forgetful of self, she wandered into the 

village, 
Cheering with looks and words the mournful hearts 

of the women. 
As o'er the darkening fields with lingering steps 

they departed. 
Urged by their household cares, and the weary feet 

of their children. 



Evangeline 123 

Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glim- 
mering vapors 

Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet de- 
scending from Sinai. 

Sweetly over the village the bell of the Angel us 
sounded. 

Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church Evan- 
geline lingered. 
All was silent within \ and in vain at the door and 

the windows 
Stood she, and listened and looked, till, overcome 

by emotion, 
" Gabriel ! " cried she aloud with tremulous voice ; 

but no answer 
Cams from the graves of the dead, nor the gloomier 

grave of the living. 
Slowly at length she returned to the tenantless 

house of her father. 
Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board 

was the supper untasted. 
Empty and drear was each room, and haunted with 

phantoms of terror. 
Sadly echoed her step on the stair and the floor of 

her chamber. 
In the dead of the night she heard the disconsolate 

rain fall 
Loud on the withered leaves of the sycamore-tree 

by the window. 



1 24 Evangeline 

Keenly the lightning flashed ; and the voice of the 

echoing thunder 
Told her that God was in heaven, and governed 

the world he created ! 
Then she remembered the tale she had heard of 

the justice of Heaven ; 
Soothed was her troubled soal, and she peacefully 

slumbered till mornins:. 



V. 



Four times the sun had risen and set ; and now 

on the fifth day 
Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of 

the farm-house. 
Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful 

procession, 
Came from the neighboring hamlets and farms tlie 

Acadian women. 
Driving in ponderous wains their household goods 

to tiie sea-shore, 
Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on 

their dwellings, 
Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road 

and the woodland. 
Close at their sides their children ran, and urged 

on the oxen. 



Evangeline 125 

While in their httle hands they clasped some frag- 
ments of playthings. 

Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried ; 
and there on the sea-beach 
Piled in confusion lay the household goods of the 

peasants. 
All (1 ly long between the shore and the ships did 

the boats ply ; 
All day long the wains came laboring down fiom 

the village. 
Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his 

setting, 
Echoed far o'er the fields came the roll of drums 

from the churchyard. 
Thither the women and children thronged. On a 

sudden the church-doors 
Opened, and forth came the guard, and marching 

in gloomy procession 
Followed the long-imprisoned, but p . i lent, Acadian 

farmers. 
Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their 

homes and their country, 
Sing as they go, and in singing forjet they are 

weary and wayworn, 
So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants 

descended 
Down from the ch-nxh to the shore, amid their 
wives and iheii- daughters. 



1 26 Evangeline 

Foremost the young men came ; and, raising togeth- 
er their voices, 

Sang with tremulous Hps a chant of the CathoUc 
Missions : — 

" Sacred heart of the Saviour ! O inexhaustible 
fountain ! 

Fill our hearts this day with strength and submis- 
sion and patience ! " 

Then the old men, as they marched, aiul the 
women that stood by the wayside 

Joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the 
sunshine above them 

Mingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits 
departed. 

Half-way down to the shore Evangeline waited 

in silence, 
Not overcome with grief, but strong in the hour of 

affliction, — 
Calmly and sadly she waited, until the procession 

approached her, 
And she beheld the face of Gabriel pale with emo- 
tion. 
Tears then filled her eyes, and, eagerly running to 

meet him. 
Clasped she his hands, and laid her head on his 

shoulder, and whispered, — 
" Gabriel ! be of good cheer ! for if we love one 

another, 



Evangeline 127 

Nothing, in truths can harm us, whatever mis- 
chances may happen ! " 
Smiling she spake these words ; then suddenl)^ 

paused, for her father 
Saw she slowly advancing. Alas ! how changed 

was his aspect ! 
Gone was the glow from his cheek, and the fire 

from his eye, and his footstep 
Heavier seemed with the weight of the heavy heart 

in his bosom. 
But with a smile and a sigh, she clasped his neck 

and embraced him, 
Speaking words of endearment where words of 

comfort availed not. 
Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that 

mournful procession. 



There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir 
of embarking. 

Busily plied the freighted boats ; and in the confu- 
sion 

Wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, 
too late, saw their children 

Left on the land, extending their arms, wi ch wildest 
entreaties. 

So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel car- 
ried, 

While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood 
with her father. 



128 Evangeline 



Half the task was not done when the sun went 

clown, and the twilight 
Deepened and darkened around ; and in haste the 

refluent ocean 
Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the 

sand-beach 
Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the 

slippery sea-weed. 
Farther back in the midst of the household goods 

and the wagons, 
Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a bat- 

tie, 
All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels 

near them. 
Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian 

farmers. 
Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellow- 
ing ocean. 
Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, 

and leaving 
Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of 

the sailors. 
Then, as the night descended, the herds returned 

from their pastures ; 
Sweet was the moist still air with the odor of milk 

from their udders ; 
Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known 

bars of the farm-yard, — 
Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the 

hand of the milkmaid. 



Evangeline 1 29 

Silence reigned in the streets ; from the church no 

Angelas sounded, 
Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no 

lights from the windows. 

But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires 

had been kindled, ^ 

Built of the drift-wood tlirown on the sands from 

wrecks in the tempest. 
Round them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces 

w^ere gathered, 
Voices of women were heard, and of m _■ 1 and the 

crying of children. 
Onward from fire to fi;e, as f/^m hea -lIi lo hearth 

in his parish. 
Wandered the faithful priest, consolin ; and bless- 
ing and cheering, 
Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Mellta's desolate 

sea-shore. 
Thus he approached the place where Evangeline 

sat with her father, 
And in the flickering light beheld the face of the 

old man. 
Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either 

thought or emotion, 
E'en as the face of a clock from which the hands 

have been taken. 
Vainly Evangeline strove with words and caresses 

to cheer him, 

VOL. V. 6* I 



1 30 Evangeline 

Vainly offered him food ; yet he moved not, he 
looked not, he spake not, 

But, with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flicker- 
ing fire-lio;ht. 

^'- Benedicite !'' murmm-ed the priest, in tones of 
compassion. 

More he fain would have said, but his heart was 
full, and his accents 

Faltered and paused on his lips, as. the feet of a 
child on a threshold, 

Hushed by the scene he beholds, and the awful 
presence of sorrow. 

Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of 
the maiden. 

Raising his tearful eyes to the silent stars that 
above them 

Moved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs 
and sorrows of mortals. 

Then sat he down at her side, and they wept to- 
gether in silence. 

Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in au- 
tumn the blood-red 

Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er 
the horizon 

Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon moun- 
tain and meadow, 

Seizing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge 
shadows together. 



Evangeline 1 3 i 

Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs 
of the village, 

Gleamed on the sky and the sea, and the ships that 
lay in the roadstead. 

Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of 
flame were 

Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the 
quivering hands of a martyr. 

Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burn- 
ing thatch, and, uplifting, 

Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a 
hundred house-tops 

Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame in- 
termingled. 

These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the 

shore and on shipboard. 
Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in 

their anguish, 
" We shall behold no more our homes in the village 

of Grand-Pre ! " 
Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the 

farm-yards, 
Thinking the day had dawned ; and anon the low^- 

ing of cattle 
Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of 

dogs interrupted. 
Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the 

sleeping encampments 



132 Evangeline 

Far in the western prairies or forests that skirt the 

Nebraska, 
When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the 

speed of the whirlwind, 
Or the loud bellowing herds of buftaloes rush to 

the river. 
Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the 

herds and the horses 
Broke through their folds and fences, and madly 

rushed o'er the meadows. 

Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, the 

priest and the maiden 
Gazed on the scene of terror that reddened and 

widened before them ; 
And as they turned at length to speak to their 

silent companion, 
Lo ! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched 

abroad on the sea-shore 
Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had 

departed. 
Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head, and the 

maiden 
Knelt at her father's side, and wailed aloud in her 

terror. 
Then in a swoon she sank, and lay with her head 

on his bosom. 
Through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious 

slumber ; 



Evangeline 133 

And when she woke from the trance, she belield a 

muUitude near her. 
Faces of friends she beheld, that were mournfully 

gazing upon her, 
Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of sad lest com- 
passion. 
Still the blaze of the burning village illiimincd the 

landscape, 
Reddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the 

faces around her. 
And like the day of doom it seemed to her wavering 

senses. 
Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the 

people, — 
" Let us bury him here by the sea. When a hap- 
pier season 
Brings us again to our homes from the unknown 

land of our exile, 
Then shall his sacred dust be piour.ly laid in the 

churchyard." 
Such were the words of the priest. And there in 

haste by the sea-side. 
Having the glare of the burning village for funeral 

torches. 
But without bell or book, they buried the farmer of 

Grand-Pre. 
And as the voice of the" priest repeated the service 

of sorrow, 
Lo ! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast 

congregation. 



1 34 Evangeline 

Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar 

with the dirges. 
'T was the returning tide, that afar from the waste 

of the ocean. 
With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and 

hurrying landward. 
Then recommenced once more the stir and noise 

of embarking ; 
And with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out 

of the harbor, 
Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and 

the village in ruins. 



PART THE SECON D 



MANY a weary year had passed since the 
burning of Grand-Pre, 
When on the falUng tide the freighted vessels de- 
parted, 
Bearing a nation, with all its household gods, into 

exile, 
Exile without an end, and without an example in 

story. 
Far asunder, on separate coasts, the Acadians 

landed ; 
Scattered were they, like flakes of snow, when the 

wind from the northeast 
Strikes aslant through the fogs that darken the 

Banks of Newfoundland. 
Friendless, homeless, hopeless, they wandered from 

city to city. 
From the cold lakes of the North to sultry Southern 

savannas, — 
From the bleak shores of the sea to the lands where 

the Father of Waters 



1 36 Evangeline 

Seizes the hills in his hands, and drags them down 

to the ocean, 
Deep in their sands to bury the scattered bones of 

the mammoth. 
Friends they sought and homes ; and many, de- 
spairing, heart-broken, 
Asked of the earth but a grave, and no longer a 

friend nor a fireside. 
Written their history stands on tablets of stone in 

the churchyards. 
Long among them was seen a maiden who waited 

and wandered, 
Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently suiTering 

all things. 
Fair was she and young ; but, alas ! before her 

extended. 
Dreary and vast and silent, the desert of life, with 

its pathway 
Marked by the graves of those who had sorrowed 

and suffered before her, 
Passions long extinguished, and hopes long dead 

and abandoned. 
As the emigrant's way o'er the Western desert is 

marked by 
Camp-fires long consumed, and bones that bleach 

in the sunshine. 
Something there was in her life incomplete, imper- 
fect, unfinished ; 
As if a morning of June, with all its music and sun 

shine, 



Evangeline 137 

Suddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly 
descended 

Into the east again, from whence it late had aris- 
en. 

Sometimes she lingered in" towns, till, urged by the 
fever within her, 

Urged by a restless longing, the hunger and thirst 
of the spirit, 

She would commence again her endless search and 
endeavor ; 

Sometimes in churchyards strayed, and gazed on 
the crosses and tombstones, 

Sat by some nameless grave, and thought that per- 
haps in its bosom 

He was already at rest, and she longed to slumber 
beside him. 

Sometimes a rumor, a hearsay, an inarticulate whis- 
per. 

Came with its airy hand to point and beckon her 
forward. 

Sometimes she spake with those who had seen her 
beloved and known him, 

But it was long ago, in some far-off place or forgot- 
ten. 

" Gabriel Lajeunesse ! " they said ; " O yes ! we 
have seen him. 

He was with Basil the blacksmith, and both have 
gone to the prairies ; 

Coureurs-des-Bois are they, and famous hunters 
and trappers." 



138 Evaugcline 

" Gabriel Lajeunesse ! " said others ; " O yes ! we 
have seen him. 

He is a Voyageur in the lowlands of Louisi- 
ana." 

Then would they say, " Dear child ! why dream 
and wait for him longer ? 

Are there not other youths as fair as Gabriel ? 
others / 

AVho have hearts as tender and true, and spirits as 
loyal ? 

Here is Baptiste Leblanc, the notary's son, who has 
loved thee 

Many a tedious year ; come, give him thy hand and 
be happy ! 

Thou art too fair to be left to braid St. Catherine's 
tresses." 

Then would Evangeline answer, serenely, but sad- 
ly, " I cannot ! 

Whither my heart has gone, there follows my hand, 
and not elsewhere. 

For when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and 
illumines the pathway, 

Many things are made clear, that else lie hidden in 
darkness." 

Thereupon the priest, her friend and father-confes- 
sor. 

Said, with a smile, '' O daughter ! thy God thus 
speaketh within thee ! 

Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was 
wasted ; 



Evangeline 139 

If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, 

returning 
Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them 

full of refreshment ; 
That which the fountain sends forth returns again 

to the fountain. 
Patience ; accomplish thy labor ; accomplish thy 

work of affection ! 
Sorrow and silence are strong, and piitient endur- 
ance is godlike. 
Therefore accomplish thy labor of love, till the 

heart is made godlike, 
Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rendered 

more worthy of heaven ! " 
Cheered by the good man's words, Evangeline 

labored and waited. 
Still in her heart she heard the funeral dirge of the 

ocean, 
But with its sound there was mingled a voice that 

whispered, " Despair not ! " 
Thus did that poor soul wander in want and cheer- 
less discomfort, 
Bleeding, barefooted, over the shards and thorns 

of existence. 
Let me essay, O Muse ! to follow the wanderer's 

footsteps ; — 
Not through each devious path, each changeful year 

of existence ; 
But as a traveller follows a streamlet's course 

through the valley : 



1 40 Evangeline 

Far from its margin at times, and seeing the gleam 
of its water 

Here and there, in some open space, and at inter- 
vals only ; 

Then drawing nearer its banks, through sylvan 
glooms that conceal it. 

Though he behold it not, he can hear its continuous 
murmur ; 

Happy, at length, if he find the spot where it reach- 
es an outlet. 



II 



It was the month of May. Far down the Beautiful 
River, 

Past the Ohio shore and past the mouth of the Wa- 
bash, 

Into the golden stream of the broad and swift Mis- 
sissippi, 

Floated a cumbrous boat, that was rowed by Aca- 
dian boatmen. 

It was a band of exiles : a raft, as it were, from the 
shipwrecked 

Nation, scattered along the coast, now floating to- 
gether, 

Boifnd by the bonds of a common belief and a 
common misfortune ; 



Evangeline 1 4 1 

Men and women and children, who, guided by 

hope or by hearsay, 
Sought for their kith and their kin among the few- 
acred farmers 
On the Acadian coast, and the prairies of fair Ope- 

lousas. . 
With them Evangehne went, and her guide, the 

Father Fehcian. 
Onward o'er sunken sands, through a wilderness 

sombre with forests. 
Day after day they glided adown the turbulent 

river ; 
Nighi: after night, by their blazing fires, encamped 

on its borders. 
Now through rushing chutes, among green islands, 

where plumelike 
Cotton-trees nodded their shadowy crests, they 

swept with the current. 
Then emerged into broad lagoons, where silvery 

sand-bars 
Lay in the stream, and along the wimpling waves 

of their margin, 
Shining with snow-white plumes, large flocks of 

pelicans waded. 
Level the landscape grew, and along the shores of 

the river. 
Shaded by china-trees, in the midst of luxuriant 

gardens. 
Stood the houses of planters, with negro-cabins and 

dove-cots. 



142 Evangeline 

They were approaching the region where reigns 
perpetual summer, 

Where through the Golden Coast, and groves of 
orange and citron, 

Sweeps with majestic curve the river away to the 
eastward. 

They, too, swerved from their course ; and, entering 
the Bayou of Plaquemine, 

Soon were lost in a maze of sluggish and devious 
waters, 

Which, like a network of steel, extended in every 
direction. 

Over their heads the towering and tenebrous 
boughs of the cypress 

Met in a dusky arch, and trailing- mosses in mid 
air 

Waved like banners that hang on the walls of an- 
cient cathedrals. 

Deathlike the silence seemed, and unbroken, save 
by the herons 

Home to their roosts in the cedar-trees returning 
at sunset, 

Or by the owl, as he greeted tbe moon with demo- 
niac laughter. 

Lovely the moonlight was as it glanced and gleamed 
on the water. 

Gleamed on the columns of cypress and cedar sus- 
taining the arches, 

Down through whose broken vaults it fell as 
through chinks in a ruin. 



Evangeline 1 43 

Dreamlike, and indistinct, and strange were all 
things around them ; 

And o'er their spirits there came a feeling of won- 
der and sadness, — 

Strange forebodings of ill, unseen and that cannot 
be compassed. 

As, at the tramp of a horse's hoof on the turf of the 
prairies. 

Far in advance are closed the leaves of the shrink- 
ing mimosa. 

So, at the hoof-beats of fate, with sad forebodings 
of evil. 

Shrinks and closes the heart, ere the stroke of 
doom has attained it. 

But Evangeline's heart was sustained by a vision, 
that faintly 

Floated before her eyes, and beckoned her on 
through the moonlight. 

It was the thought of her brain that assumed the 
shape of a phantom. 

Through those shadowy aisles had Gabriel wan- 
dered before her, 

And every stroke of the oar now brought him 
nearer and nearer. 

Then in his place, at the prow of the boat, rose 
one of the oarsmen. 
And, as a signal sound, if others like them perad- 
venture 



1 44 Evangeline 

Sailed on those gloomy and midnight streanis, 

blew a blast on his bugle. 
Wild through the dark colonnades and corridors 

leafy the blast rang, 
Breaking the seal of silence, and giving tongues to 

the forest. 
Soundless above them the banners of moss just 

stirred to the music. 
Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the dis- 
tance, 
Over the watery floor, and beneath the reverberant 

branches ; 
But not a voice replied ; no answer came from the 

darkness ; 
And, when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of 

pain was the silence. 
Then Evangeline slept ; but the boatmen rowed 

through the midnight. 
Silent at times, then singing familiar Canadian 

boat-songs, 
Such as they sang of old on their own Acadian 

rivers, 
While through the night were heard the mysterious 

sounds of the desert. 
Far off, — indistinct, — as of wave or wind in the 

forest, 
Mixed "with the whoop of the crane and the roar of 

the grim alligator. 



Evangeline 145 

Thus ere another noon they emerged from the 
shades ; and before them 

Lay, in the golden sun, the lakes of the Atcha- 
falaya. 

Water-lilies in myriads rocked on the slight undu- 
lations 

Made by the passing oars, and, resplendent in 
beauty, the lotus 

Lifted her golden crown above the heads of the 
boatmen. 

Faint was the air with the odorous breath of mag- 
nolia blossoms. 

And with the heat of noon ; and numberless syl- 
van islands. 

Fragrant and thickly embowered with blossoming 
hedges of roses, 

Near to whose shores they glided along, invited to 
slumber. 

Soon by the fairest of these their weary oars were 
suspended. 

Under the boughs of Wachita willows, that grew 
by the margin. 

Safely their boat was moored ; and scattered about 
on the greensward. 

Tired with their midnight toil, the weary travellers 
slumbered. 

Over them vast and high extended the cope of a 
cedar. 

Swinging from its great arms, the trumpet-flower 
and the grape-vine 

VOL. V. 7 J 



146 Evangeline 

Hung their ladder of ropes aloft like the ladder of 
Jacob, 

On whose pendulous stairs the angels ascending 
descending, 

Were the swift humming-birds, that flitted from 
blossom to blossom. 

Such was the vision Evangeline saw as she slum- 
bered beneath it. 

Filled was her heart with love, and the dawn of an 
opening heaven 

Lighted her soul in sleep with the glory of regions 
celestial. 

Nearer and ever nearer, among the numberless 

islands, 
Darted a light, swift boat, that sped away o'er the 

water, 
Urged on its course by the sinewy arms of hunters 

and trappers. 
Northward its prow was turned, to the land of the 

bison and beaver. 
At the helm sat a youth, with countenance thought- 
ful and careworn. 
Dark and neglected locks ©vershadowed his brow, 

and a sadness 
Somewhat beyond his years on his face was legibly 

written. 
Gabriel was it, who, weary with waiting, unhappy 

and restless. 



Evangeline 1 47 

Sought in the Western wilds obHvion of self and of 
sorrow. 

Swiftly they glided along, close under the lee of the 
island, 

But by the opposite bank, and behind a screen of 
palmettos, 

So that they saw not the boat, where it lay con- 
cealed in the willows. 

All undisturbed by the dash of their oars, and un- 
seen, were the sleepers. 

Angel of God was there none to awaken the slum- 
bering maiden. 

Swiftly they glided away, like the shade of a cloud 
on the prairie. 

After the sound of their oars on the tholes had died 
in the distance. 

As from a magic trance the sleepers awoke, and 
the maiden 

Said with a sigh to the friendly priest, " O Father 
Felician ! 

Something says in my heart that near me Gabriel 
wanders. 

Is it a foolish dream, an idle and vague supersti- 
tion ? 

Or has an angel passed, and revealed the truth to 
my spirit ? " 

Then, with a blush, she added, " Alas for my cred- 
ulous fancy ! 

Unto ears like thine such words as these, have no 
meanins:." 



148 Evangeline 

But made answer the reverend man, and he smiled 

as he answered, — 
" Daughter, thy words are not idle ; nor are they to 

me without meaning. 
Feeling is deep and still ; and the word that floats 

on the surface 
Is as die tossing buoy, that betrays where the an- 
chor is hidden. 
Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world 

calls illusions. 
Gabriel truly is near thee ; for not far away to the 

southward, 
On the banks of the Teche, are the towns of St. 

Maur and St. Martin. 
There the long-wandering bride shall be given 

again to her bridegroom, 
There the long-absent pastor regain his flock and 

his sheepfold. 
Beautiful is the land, with its prairies and forests of 

fruit-trees ; 
Under the feet a garden of flowers, and the bluest 

of heavens 
Bending above, and resting its dome on the walls of 

the forest. 
They who dwell there have named it the Eden of 

Louisiana." 

With these words of cheer they arose and contin- 
ued their journey. 



Evangeline 149 

Softly the evening came. The sun from the western 

horizon 
Like a magician extended his golden wand o'er the 

landscape ; 
Twinkling vapors arose ; and sky and water and 

forest 
Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and 

mingled together. 
Hanging between two skies, a cloud with edges of 

silver. 
Floated the boat, with its dripping oars, on the mo- 
tionless water. 
Filled was Evangeline's heart with inexpressible 

sweetness. 
Touched by the magic spell, the sacred fountains 

of feeling 
Glowed with the light of love, as the skies and wa- 
ters around her. 
Then from a neighboring thicket the mocking-bird, 

wildest of singers, 
Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the 

water. 
Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious 

music. 
That the whole air and the woods and the waves 

seemed silent to listen. 
Plaintive at first were the tones and sad ; then 

soaring to madness 
Seemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied 

Bacchantes. 



150 Evangeline 

Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low 

lamentation ; 
Till, having gathered them all, he flung them abroad 

in derision. 
As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the 

tree-tops 
Shakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower 

on the branches. 
With such a prelude as this, and hearts that 

throbbed with emotion. 
Slowly they entered the Teche, where it flows 

through the green Opelousas, 
And, through the amber air, above the crest of the 

woodland, 
Saw the column of smoke that arose from a neigh- 
boring dwelling ; — 
Sounds of a horn they heard, and the distant lowing 

of cattle. 



Ill 



Near to the bank of the river, o'ershadowed by 

oaks, from whose branches 
Garlands of Spanish moss and of mystic mistletoe 

flaunted. 
Such as the Druids cut down with golden hatchets 

at Yule-tide, 



Evangeline 151 

Stood, secluded and still, the house of the herds- 
man. A garden 

Girded it round about with a belt of luxuriant blos- 
soms, 

Filling the air Avith fragrance. The house itself was 
of timbers 

Hewn from the cypress-tree, and carefully fitted 
together. 

Large and low was the roof; and on slender col- 
umns supported, 

Rose-wreathed, vine-encircled, a broad and spacious 
veranda. 

Haunt of the humming-bird and the bee, extended 
around it. 

At each end of the house, amid the flowers of the 
garden. 

Stationed the dove-cots were, as love's perpetual 
symbol. 

Scenes of endless wooing, and endless contentions 
of rivals. 

Silence reigned o'er the place. The line of shadow 
and sunshine 

Ran near the tops of the trees ; but the house itself 
was in shadow, 

And from its chimney-top, ascending and slowly 
expanding 

Into the evening air, a thin blue column of smoke 
rose. 

In the rear of the house, from the garden gate, ran 
a pathway 



1 5 2 Evangeline 

Through the great groves of oak to the skirts of the 
limitless prairie, 

Into whose sea of flowers the sun was slowly de- 
scending. 

Full in his track of light, like ships with shadowy 
canvas 

Hanging loose from their spars in a motionless calm 
in the tropics, 

Stood a cluster of trees, with tangled cordage of 
grape-vines. 

Just where the woodlands met the flowery surf of 

the prairie, 
Mounted upon his horse, with Spanish saddle and 

stirrups, 
Sat a herdsman, arrayed in gaiters and doublet of 

deerskin. 
Broad and brown was the face that from under the 

Spanish sombrero 
Gazed on the peaceful scene, with the lordly look 

of its master. 
Round about him were numberless herds of kine, 

that were grazing 
Quietly in the meadows, and breathing the vapory 

freshness 
That uprose from the river, and spread itself over 

the landscape. 
Slowly lifting the horn that hung at his side, ar.d 

expanding 



Evangeline 1 5 



Fully his broad, deep chest, he blew a blast, that 

resounded 
Wildly and sweet and far, through the still damp 

air of the evening. 
Suddenly out of the grass the long white horns of 

the cattle 
Rose like flakes of foam on the adverse currents ot 

ocean. 
Silent a moment they gazed, then bellowing rushed 

o'er the prairie. 
And the whole mass became a cloud, a shade in 

the distance. 
Then, as the herdsman turned to the house, through 

the gate of the garden 
Saw he the forms of the priest and the maiden 

advancing to meet him. 
Suddenly down from his horse he sprang in amaze- 
ment, and forward 
Rushed with extended arms and exclamations of 

wonder ; 
When they beheld his face, they recognized Basil 

the blacksmith. 
Hearty his welcome was, as he led his guests to the 

garden. 
There in an arbor of roses with endless question and 

answer 
Gave they vent to their hearts, and renewed their 

friendly embraces, 
Laughing and weeping by turns, or sitting silent 
and thoughtful. 
7* 



T 5 1 Evangeline 

Thoughtful, for Gabriel came not ; and now dark 

doubts and misgivings 
Stole o'er the maiden's heart ; and Basil, somewhat 

embarrassed, 
Broke the silence and said, "If you came by the 

Atchafalaya, 
How have you nowhere encountered my Gabriel's 

boat on the bayous ? " 
Over Evangeline's face at the words of Basil a 

shade passed. 
Tears came into her eyes, and she said, with a 

tremulous accent, 
" Gone ? is Gabriel gone ? " and, concealing her 

face on his shoulder. 
All her o'erburdened heart gave way, and she wept 

and lamented. 
Then the good Basil said, — and his voice grew 

blithe as he said it, — 
" Be of good cheer, my child ; it is only to-day he 

departed. 
Foolish boy ! he has left me alone with my herds 

and my horses. 
Moody and restless grown, and tried and troubled, 

his spirit 
Could no longer endure the calm of this quiet exist- 
ence. 
Thinking ever of thee, uncertain and sorrowful 

ever, 
Ever silent, or speaking only of thee and his troub- 
les. 



Evangeline i 5 5 

He at length had become so tedious to men and to 

maidens, 
Tedious even to me, that at length I bethought me, 

and sent him 
Unto the town of Adayes to trade for mules with 

the Spaniards. 
Thence he will follow the Indian trails to the Ozark 

Mountains, 
Hunting for furs in the forests, on rivers trapping 

the beaver. 
Therefore be of good cheer ; we will follow the 

fugitive lover ; 
He is not far on his way, and the Fates and the 

streams are against him. 
Up and away to-morrow, and through the red dew 

of the morning 
We will follow him fast, and bring him back to his 

prison." 

Then glad voices were heard, and up from the 

banks of the river. 
Borne aloft on his comrades' arms, came Michael 

the fiddler. 
Long under Basil's roof had he lived like a god on 

Olympus, 
Having no other care than dispensing music to 

mortals. 
Far renowned was he for his silver locks and his 

fiddle. 



156 Evangeline 

" Long live Michael," they cried, " our brave Aca- 
dian minstrel ! " 
As they bore him aloft in triumphal procession ; 

and straightway 
Father Felician advanced with Evangeline, greeting 

the old man 
Kindly and oft, and recalling the past, while Basil, 

enraptured. 
Hailed with hilarious joy his old companions and 

gossips. 
Laughing loud and long, and embracing mothers 

and daughters. 
Much they marvelled to see the wealth of the ci- 
devant blacksmith. 
Ail his domains and his herds, and his patriarchal 

demeanor ; 
Much they marvelled to hear his tales of the soil 

and the climate, 
And of the prairies, whose numberless herds were 

his who would take them ; 
Each one thought in his heart, that he, too, would 

go and do likewise. 
Thus they ascended the steps, and, crossing the 

breezy veranda, 
Entered the hall of the house, where already the 

supper of Basil 
Waited his late return ; and they rested and feasted 

together. 



Evangeline 1 5 7 

Over the joyous feast the sudden darkness 
descended. 

All was siljnt \vithout, and, illuming the landscape 
with silver, 

Fair rose the dewy moon and the myriad stars ; 
but within doors. 

Brighter than these, shone the faces of friends in 
the glimmering lamplight. 

Then from his station aloft, at the head of the table, 
the herdsman 

Poured forth his heart and his wine together in 
endless profusion. 

Lighting his pipe, that was filled with sweet Natchi- 
toches tobacco, 

Thus he spake to his guests, who listened, and 
smiled as they listened : — 

"Welcome once more, my friends, who long have 
been friendless and homeless, 

Welcome once more to a home, that is better per- 
chance than the old one ! 

Here no hungry winter congeals our blood like the 
rivers ; 

Here no stony ground provokes the wrath of the 
farmer. 

Smoothly the ploughshare runs through the soil, as 
a keel through the water. 

All the year round the orange-groves are in blos- 
som ; and grass grows 

More in a single night than a whole Canadian sum- 
mer. 



158 Evangeline 

Here, too, numberless herds run wild and unclaimed 

in the prairies ; 
Here, too, lands may be had for the asking, and 

forests of timber 
With a few blows of the axe are hewn and framed 

into houses. 
After your houses are built, and your tields are yel- 
low with harvests, 
No King George of England shall drive you away 

from your homesteads, 
Burning your dwellings and barns, and stealing 

your farms and your cattle." 
Speaking these words, he blew a wrathful cloud 

from his nostrils, 
While his huge, brown hand came thundering 

down on the table. 
So that the guests all started ; and Father Felician, 

astounded, 
Suddenly paused, with a pinch of snuff half-way to 

his nostrils. 
But the brave Basil resumed, and his words were 

milder and gayer : — 
" Only beware of the fever, my friends, beware of 

the fever ! 
For it is not like that of our cold Acadian 

climate. 
Cured by wearing a spider hung round one's neck 

in a nutshell ! " 
Then there were voices heard at the door, and foot- 
steps approaching 



Evangeline 159 

Sounded upon the stairs and the floor of the breezy 

veranda. 
It was the neighboring Creoles and small Acadian 

planters, 
Who had been summoned all to the house of Basil 

the Herdsman. 
Merry ths meeting was of ancient com/idj; and 

neighbors : 
Friend clasped friend in his arms ; and they who 

before were as strangers, 
Meeting in exile, became straightway as friends to 

each other, 
Drawn by the gentle bond of -a common country 

together. 
But in the neighboring hall a strain of music, pro- 
ceeding 
From the accordant strings of Michael's melodious 

fiddle, 
Broke up all further speech. Away, like children 

delighted, 
All things forgotten beside, they gave themselves to 

the maddening 
Whirl of the dizzy dance, as it swept and swayed to 

the music. 
Dreamlike, with beaming eyes and the rush of flut- 



Meanwhile, apart, at the head of the hall, the 
priest and the herdsman 



1 60 Evangeline 

Sat, conversing together of past and present and 
future ; 

While Evangehne stood Uke one entranced, for 
within her 

Olden memories rose, and loud in the midst of the 
music 

Heard she the sound of the sea, and an irrepressi- 
ble sadness 

Came o'er her heart, and unseen she stole forth 
into the garden. 

Beautiful was the night. Behind the black wall of 
the forest, 

Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. 
On the river 

Fell here and there through the branches a tremu- 
lous gleam of the moonlight, 

Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and 
devious spirit. 

Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers 
of the garden 

Poured out their souls in odors, that were their 
prayers and confessions 

Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Car- 
thusian. 

Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with 
shadows and night-dews. 

Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the 
magical moonlight 

Seemed to inundate Her soul with i:-:definable long- 



Evangeline 1 6 1 

As, through the giirclen gate, and beneath the shade 

of the oak-trees, 
Passed she along the path to the edge of the meas- 

ureles.s prairie. 
Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire- 
flies 
Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infmite 

numbers. 
Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the 

heavens, 
Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to mar- 
vel and worship, 
Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls 

of that temple, 
As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, 

" Upharsin." 
And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and 

the fire-flies, 
Wandered alone, and she cried, " O Gabriel ! O 

my beloved ! 
Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold 

thee ? 
Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does 

not reach me ? 
Ah ! how often thy feet have trod this path to the 

prairie ! 
Ah ! how often thine eyes have looked on the 

woodlands around me ! 
Ah \ how often beneath this oak, returning from 

labor, 

A'OL. V. K 



1 62 Evangeline 

Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in 

thy slumbers. 
When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded 

about thee ? " 
Loud and sudden and near the note of a whippoor- 

will sounded 
Like a flute in the woods ; and anon, through the 

neighboring thickets, 
Farther and farther away it floated and dropped 

into silence. 
" Patience ! " whispered the oaks from oracular cav- 
erns of darkness ; 
And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, 

" To-morrow ! " 

Bright rose the sun next day ; and all the flowers 

of the garden 
Bathed his shining feet with their tears, and anoint- 
ed his tresses 
With the delicious balm that they bore in their 

vases of crystal. 
" Farewell ! " said the priest, as he stood at the 

shadowy threshold ; 
" See that you bring us the Prodigal Son from his 

fasting and famine. 
And, too, the Foolish Virgin, who slept when the 

bridegroom was coming." 
" Farewell ! " answered the maiden, and, smiling, 

with Basil descended ' 



Evangeline 1 63 

Down to the river's brink, where the boatmen al- 
ready were waiting. 
Tlius beginning their journey with morning, and 

sunshine, and gladness, 
Swiftly they followed the flight of him who was 

speeding before them. 
Blown by the blast of fate like a dead leaf over the 

desert. 
Not that day, nor the next, nor yet the day that 

succeeded. 
Found they trace of his course, in lake or forest or 

river. 
Nor, after many days, had they found him ; but 

vague and uncertain 
Rumors alone were their guides through a wild and 

desolate country ; 
Till, at the little inn of the Spanish town of 

Ad ayes. 
Weary and worn, they alighted, and learned from 

the garrulous landlord. 
That on the day before, with horses and guides an 1 

companions, 
Gabriel left the village, and took the road of the 

prairies. 



1 64 Evangeline 



IV. 



Far in the West there hes a desert land, where the 
mountains 

Lift, through perpetual snows, their lofty and lumi- 
nous summits. 

Down from their jagged, deep ravines, where the 
gorge, like a gateway, 

Opens a passage rude to the wheels of the emi- 
grant's wagon. 

Westward the Oregon fiov;s and the Walleway and 
Owyhee. 

Eastward, with devious course, among the Wind- 
river Mountains, 

Through the Sweet-water Valley precipitate leaps 
the Nebraska ; 

And to the south, from Fontaine-qui-bout and the 
Spanish sierras, 

Fretted with sands and rocks, and swept by the 
wind of the desert, 

Numberless torrents, with ceaseless sound, descend 
to the ocean, 

Like the great chords of a harp, in loud and solemn 
vibrations. 

Spreading between these streams are the wondrous, 
beautiful prairies, 

Billowy bays of grass ever rolling in shadow and 
sunshine. 



Evangeline 165 

Bright with luxuriant clusters of roses and purple 
amorphas. 

Over them wandered the buffalo herds, and the elk 
and the roebuck ; 

Over them wandered the wolves, and herds of rider- 
less horses ; 

Fires that blast and blight, and winds that are 
weary with travel ; 

Over them wander the scattered tribes of Ishmael's 
children. 

Staining the desert with blood ; and above their 
terrible war-trails 

Circles and sails aloft, on pinions majestic, the vul- 
ture, 

Like the implacable soul of a chieftain slaughtered 
in battle, 

By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the heav- 
ens. 

Here and there rise smokes from the camps of 
these savage marauders ; 

Here and there rise groves from the margins of 
swift-running rivers ; 

And the grim, taciturn bear, the anchorite monk 
of the desert, 

Climbs down their dark ravines to dig for roots by 
the brook-side. 

And over all is the sky, the clear and ciystalline 
heaven, 

Like the protecting hand of God inverted above 
them. 



1 66 Evangeline 

Into this wonderful land, at the base of the 

Ozark Mountains, 
Gabriel far had entered, with hunters and trappers 

behind him. 
Day after day, with their Indian guides, the maiden 

and Basil 
Followed his flying 'steps, and thought each day to 

o'ertake him. 
Sometimes they saw, or thought they saw, the 

smoke of his camp-fire 
Rise in the morning air from the distant plain ; 

but at nightfall, 
When they had reached the place, they found only 

embers and ashes. 
And, though their hearts were sad at times and 

their bodies w^ere weary, 
Hope still guided them on, as the magic Fata 

Morgana 
Show^ed them her lakes of light, that retreated and 

vanished before them. 

Once, as they sat by their evening fire, there si- 
lently entered 

Into the little camp an Indian v/oman, wdiose fea- 
tures 

Wore deep traces of sorrow, and patience as great 
as her sorrow. 

She was a Shawnee w^oman returning home to her 
people. 



Evangeline i ^1 

From the far-off hunting-grounds of the cruel Ca- 

manches, 
Where her Canadian husband, a Coureur-des-Bois, 

had been murdered. 
Touched were their hearts at her story, and warm- 
est and friendUest welcome 
Gave they, with words of cheer, and she sat and 

feasted among them 
On the buffalo-meat and the venison cooked on the 

embers. 
But when their meal was done, and Basil and all 

his companions, 
Worn with the long day's march and the chase of 

the deer and the bison, 
Stretched themselves on the ground, and slept 

where the quivering fire-light 
Flashed on their swarthy cheeks, and their forms 

wrapped up in their blankets. 
Then at the door of Evangeline's tent she sat and 

repeated 
Slowly, with soft, low voice, and the charm of her 

Indian accent. 
All the tale of her love, with its pleasures, and 

pains, and reverses. 
Much Evangeline wept at the tale, and to know 

that another 
Hapless heart like her own had loved and had 

been disappointed. 
Moved to the depths of her soul by pity and wom- 
an's compassion, 



1 68 Evangeline 

Yet in her sorrow pleased that one who had suf- 
fered was near her, 
She in turn related her love and all its disas- 
ters. 
Mute with wonder the Shawnee sat, and when she 

had ended 
Still was mute ; but at length, as if a mysterious 

horror 
Passed through her brain, she spake, and repeated 

the tale of the Mowis ; 
Mowis, the bridegroom of snow, who won and 

wedded a maiden. 
But, when the morning came, arose and passed 

from the wigwam. 
Fading and melting away and dissolving into the 

sunshine, 
Till she beheld him no more, though she followed 

far into the forest. 
Then, in those sweet, low tones, that seemed like 

a weird incantation. 
Told she the tale of the fair Lilinau, who was 

wooed by a phantom, 
That, through the pines o'er her father's lodge, in 

the hush of the twilight. 
Breathed like the evening wind, and whispered 

love to the maiden, 
Till she followed his green and waving plume 

through the forest, 
And never more returned, nor was seen again by 

her people. 



Evangeline 1 69 

Silent with wonder and strange surprise, Evange- 
line listened 

To the soft flow of her magical words, till the re- 
gion around her 

Seemed like enchanted ground, and her swarthy 
guest the enchantress. 

Slowly over the tops of the Ozark Mountains the 
moon rose. 

Lighting the little tent, and with a mysterious 
splendor 

Touching the sombre leaves, and embracing and 
filling the woodland. 

With a delicious sound the brook rushed by, and 
the branches 

Swayed and sighed overhead in scarcely audible 
whispers. 

Filled with the thoughts of love was Evangeline's 
heart, but a secret. 

Subtile sense crept in of pain and indefinite ter- 
ror. 

As the cold, poisonous snake creeps into the nest 
of the swallow. 

It was no earthly fear. A breath from the region 
of spirits 

Seemed to float in the air of night ; and she felt 
for a moment 

That, like the Indian maid, she, too, was pursuing 

, a phantom. 

With this thought she slept, and the fear and the 
phantom had vanished. 

VOL. V. 8 



1 70 Evangeline 

Early upon the morrow the march was resumed ; 

and the Shawnee 
Said, as they journeyed along, "On the western 

slope of these mountains 
Dwells in his little village the Black Robe chief of 

the Mission. 
Much he teaches the people, and tells them of 

Mary and Jesus ; 
Loud laugh their hearts with joy, and weep with 

pain, as they hear him." 
Then, with a sudden and secret emolion, Evange- 
line answered, 
" Let us go to the Mission, for there good tidings 

await us ! " 
Thither they turned their steeds ; and behind a 

spur of the mountains, 
Just as the sun went down, they heard a murmur of 

voices. 
And in a meadow green and broad, by the bank of 

a river. 
Saw the tents of the Christians, the tents of the 

Jesuit Mission. 
Under a towering oak, that stood in the midst of 

the village. 
Knelt the Black Robe chief with his children. A 

crucifix fastened 
High on the trunk of the tree, and overshadowed 

by grape-vines, 
Looked with its agonized face on the multitude 

kneeling beneath it. 



Evangeline - 171 

This was their rural chapel. Aloft, through the 
intricate arches 

Of its aerial roof, arose the chant of their ves- 
pers, 

Mingling its notes with the soft susurrus and sighs 
of the branches. 

Silent, with heads uncovered, the travellers, nearer 
approaching, 

Knelt on the swarded floor, and joined in th^ even- 
ing devotions. 

But when the service was done, and the benedic- 
tion had fallen 

Forth from the hands of the priest, like seed from 
the hands of the sower, 

Slowly the reverend man advanced to the strangers, 
and bade them 

Welcome ; and when they replied, he smiled with 
benignant expression. 

Hearing the homelike sounds of his mother-tongue 
in the forest. 

And, with words of kindness, conJucted them into 
his wigwam: 

There upon mats and skins they reposed, and on 
cakes of the maize-ear 

Feasted, and slaked their thirst from the water- 
gourd of the teacher. 

Soon was their story told ; and the priest with so- 
lemnity answered : — 

" Not six suns have risen and set since Gabriel, 
seated 



172 Evangeline 

On this mat by my side, where now the maiden 
reposes, 

Told me this same sad tale ; then arose and con- 
tinued his journey ! " 

Soft was the voice of the priest, and he spake with 
an accent of kindness ; 

But on Ev^angeline's heart fell his words as in win- 
ter the snow-flakes 

Fall into some lone nest from which the birds have 
departed. 

" Far to the north he has gone," continued the 
priest ; " but in autumn, 

When the chase is. done, will return again to the 
Mission." 

Then Evangeline said, and her voice w^as meek 
and submissive, 

" Let me remain with thee, for my soul is sad and 
afflicted." 

So seemed it wise and well unto all ; and betimes 
on the morrow, 

Mounting his Mexican steed, with his Indian guides 
and companions, 

Homew^ard Basil returned, and Evangeline stayed 
at the Mission. 

Slowly, slowly, slow-ly the days succeeded each 
other, — 
Days and weeks and months ; and the fields of 
maize that were springing 



Evangeline 173 

Green from the ground when a stranger she came, 

now waving above her, 
Lifted their slender shafts, with leaves interlacing, 

and forming 
Cloisters for mendicant crows and granaries pil- 
laged by squirrels. 
Then in the golden weather the maize was husked, 

and the maidens 
Blushed at each blood-red ear, for that betokened 

a lover. 
But at the crooked laughed, and called it a thief in 

the corn-field. 
Even the blood-red ear to Evangeline brought not 

her lover. 
" Patience ! " the priest would say ; " have faith, 

and thy prayer will be answered ! 
Look at this vigorous plant that lifts its head from 

the meadow, 
See how its leaves are turned to the north, as true 

as the magnet ; 
This is the compass-flower, that the finger of God 

has planted 
Here in the houseless wild, to direct the traveller's 

journey 
Over the sea-like, pathless, limitless waste of the 

desert. 
Such in the soul of man is faith. The blossoms of 

passion. 
Gay and luxuriant flowers, are brighter and fuller 

of fragrance. 



1 74 Evangeline 

But they beguile us, and lead us astray, and their 

odor is deadly. 
Only this humble plant can guide us here, and 

hereafter 
Crown us with asphodel flowers, that are wet with 

the dews of nepenthe. " 

So came the autumn, and passed, and the win- 
ter, — yet Gabriel came not ; 

Blossomed the opening spring, and the notes of the 
robin and bluebird 

Sounded sweet upon wold and in wood, 3'^et Gabriel 
came not. 

But on the breath of the summer winds a rumor was 
wafted 

Sweeter than song of bird, or hue or odor of blos- 
som. 

Far to the north and east, it said, in the Michigan 
forests, 

Gabriel had his lodge by the banks of the Saginaw 
river. 

And, with returning guides, that sought the lakes 
of St. Lawrence, 

Saying a sad farewell, Evangeline v/ent from the 
Mission. 

When over weary ways, by long and perilous 
marches, 

She had attained at length the depths of the Michi- 
gan forests, 



Evangeline 175 



Found she the hunter's lodge deserted and fallen to 



Thus did the long sad years glide on, and in 

seasons and places 
Divers and distant far was seen the wandering 

maiden ; — 
Now in the Tents of Grace of the meek Moravian 

Missions, 
Now in the noisy camps and the battle-fields of the 

army, 
Now in secluded hamlets, in towns and populous 

cities. 
Like a phantom she came, and passed away unre- 

membered. 
Fair was she and young, when in hope began the 

long journey ; 
Faded was she and old, when in disappointment it 

ended. 
Each succeeding year stole something away from 

her beauty, 
Leaving behind it, broader and deeper, the gloom 

and the shadow. 
Then there appeared and spread faint streaks of 

gray o'er her forehead, 
Dawn of another life, that broke o'er her earthly 

horizon, 
As in the eastern sky the first ^faint streaks of the 



I jG Evangeline 



V. 



In that delightful land which is washed by the 

Delaware's waters, 
Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn the 

apostle, 
Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the 

city he founded. 
There all the air is balm, and the peach is the 

emblem of beauty, 
And the streets still re-echo the names of the trees 

of the forest. 
As if they fain would appease the Dryads whose 

haunts they molested. 
There from the troubled sea had Evangeline landed, 

an exile, 
Finding among the children of Penn a home and a 

country. 
There old Rene Leblanc had died ; and when he 

departed. 
Saw at his side only one of all his hundred de- 
scendants. 
Something at least there was in the friendly streets 

of the city. 
Something that spake to her heart, ar.d made her 

no longer a stranger ; 
And her ear was pleased with "the Thee and Thou 

of the Quakers, 



Evangeline ij? 

For it recalled the past, the old Acadian coun- 
try, 
Where all men were equal, and all were brothers 

and sisters. 
So, when the fruitless search, the disappointed en- 
deavor, 
Ended, to recommence no more upon earth, un- 
complaining. 
Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her 

thoughts and her footsteps. 
As from a mountain's top the rainy mi^^ts of the 

morning 
Roll away, and afar we behold thj landscape 

below us. 
Sun-illumined, with shining rivers and cities and 

hamlets. 
So fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the 

world far below her, 
Dark no longer, but all illumined with love ; and 

the pathwa}^ 
Which she had climbed so far, lying smooth and 

fair in the distance. 
Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart was 

his image. 
Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last 

she beheld him, 
Only more beautiful made by his deathlike silence 

and absence. 
Into her thoughts of him time entered not, for it 
was not. 

VOL. V. 8* 



I yS Evangeline 

Over liim years had no power ; he \^•as not changed, 

but transfigured ; 
He had become to her heart as one who is dead, 

and not absent ; 
Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to 

others, 
This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had 

taught her. 
So was her love diffused, but, like to some odorous 

spices, 
Suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air 

with aroma. 
Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to 

follow 
Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her 

Saviour. 
Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy ; 

frequenting 
Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes 

of the city, 
Where distress and want concealed themselves 

from the sunlight. 
Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished 

neglected. 
Night after night, when the world was asleep, as 

the watchman repeated 
Loud, through the gusty streets, that all was well 

in the city, 
High at some lonely window he saw the light of 

her taper. 



Evangeline 1 79 

Day after day, in the gray of the dawn, as slow 

through the suburbs 
Plodded the German farmer, with flowers an I fruits 

for the market, 
Met he that meek, pale face, returning home from 

its watchings. 

Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the 

city, 
Presaged by wondrous signs, and mostly by flocks 

of wild pigeons. 
Darkening the sun in their flight, with naught in 

their craws but an acorn. 
And, as the tides of the sea arise in the month of 

September, 
Flooding some silver stream, till it spreads to a 

lake in the meadow. 
So death flooded life, and, o'erflowing its natural 

margin. 
Spread to a brackish lake, the silver stream of 

existence. 
Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to charm, 

the oppressor ; 
But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his 

anger ; — 
Only, alas ! the poor, who had neither friends nor 

attendants. 
Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of the 

homeless. 



1 80 Evangeline 

Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of mead- 
ows and woodlands ; — 

Now the city surrounds it ; but still, with its gate- 
way and wicket 

Meek, in the midst of splendor, its humble walls 
seem to echo 

Softly the words of the Lord: — "The poor ye 
always have with you." 

Thither, by night and by day, came the Sister of 
Mercy. The dying 

Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to 
behold there 

Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead with 
splendor, 

Such as the artist paints o'er the brows of saints 
and apostles, 

Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a 
distance. 

Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city 
celestial. 

Into whose shining gates erelong tlieir spirits would 
enter. 

Thus, on a Sabbath morn, through the streets, 

deserted and silent. 
Wending her quiet way, she entered the door of 

the almshouse. 
Sweet on the summer air was the odor of flowers 

in the garden ; 



Evangeline 1 8 1 

And she paused on her way to gather the fairest 
among them, 

That the dying once more might rejoice in their 
fragrance and beauty. 

Then, as she mounted the stairs to the corridors, 
cooled by the east wind, 

Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes from 
the belfry of Christ Church, 

While, intermingled with these, across the meadows 
were wafted 

Sounds of psalms, that were sung by the Swedes in 
their church at Wicaco. 

Soft as descending wings fell the calm of the hour 
on her spirit ; 

Something within her said, " At length thy trials are 
ended" ; 

And, with light in her looks, she entered the cham- 
bers of sickness. 

Noiselessly moved about the assiduous, careful at- 
tendants, 

Moistening the feverish lip, and the aching brow, 
and in silence 

Closing the sightless eyes of the dead, and conceal- 
ing their faces. 
Where on their pallets they lay, like drifts of snow 

by the roadside. 
Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline 

entered, 
Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she 
passed, for her presence 



1 82 ^ Evangeline 

Fell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the 
walls of a prison. 

And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, 
the consoler. 

Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it 
forever. 

Many familiar forms had disappeared in the night- 
time ; 

Vacant their places were, or filled already by stran- 
gers. 

Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of 
wonder, 

Still she stood, with her colprless lips apart, while 
a shudder 

Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the flow^ 
erets dropped from her fingers. 

And from her eyes and cheeks the light and bloom 
of the morning. 

Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such ter- 
rible anguish, 

That the dying heard it, and started up from theil 
pillows. 

On the pallet before her was stretched the form of 
an old man. 

Long, and thin, and gray were the locks that shad- 
ed his temples ; 

But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for a 
moment 



Evangeline 183 

Seemed to assume once more the forms of its ear- 
lier manhood ; 

So are wont to be changed the faces of those who 
are dying. 

Hot and red on his Hps still burned the flush of the 
fever, 

As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had be- 
sprinkled its portals, 

That the Angel of Death might see the sign, and 
pass over. 

Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit 
exhausted 

Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths 
in the darkness. 

Darkness of slumber and death, forever sinking 
and sinking. 

Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied 
reverberations, 

Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush 
that succeeded 

Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and 
saint-like, 

" Gabriel ! O my beloved ! " and died away into 
silence. 

Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home 
of his childhood ; 

Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among 
them, 

Village, and mountain, and woodlands ; and, walk- 
ing under their shadow, 



1 84 Evangeline 

As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his 

vision. 
Tears came into his eyes ; and as slowly he lifted 

his eyelids, 
Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by 

his bedside. 
Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the ac- 
cents unuttered 
Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what 

his tongue would have spoken. 
Vainly he strove to rise ; and Evangeline, kneeling 

beside him, 
Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her 

bosom. 
Sweet was the light of his eyes ; but it suddenly 

sank into darkness. 
As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at 

a casement. 

All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and 
the sorrow, 

All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied 
longing. 

All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of 
patience ! 

And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to 
her bosom, 

Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, " Fa- 
ther, I thank thee ! " 



Evangeline 185 



Still stands the forest primeval ; but far away 

from its shadow, 
Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers 

are sleeping. 
Under the humble walls of the little Catholic 

churchyard. 
In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and 

unnoticed. 
Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside 

them, ^ 

Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at 

rest and forever. 
Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer 

are busy, 
Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have 

ceased from their labors. 
Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have com- 
pleted their journey ! 

Still stands the forest primeval ; but under the 
shade of its branches 

Dwells another race, with other customs and lan- 
guage. 

Only along the shore of the mournful and misty 
Atlantic 

Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers from 
exile 



1 86 Evangeline 

Wandered back to their native land to die in its 

bosom. 
In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom are 

still busy ; 
Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kir- 

tles ofhomespun, 
And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's 

stoiy, 
While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced, 

neighboring ocean 
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the 

wail of the forest. 



THE SEASIDE 



AND THE FIRESIDE 



1849 



DEDICATION. 

AS one who, walking in the twilight gloom, 
Hears round about him voices as it darkens, 
And seeing not the forms from which they come, 
Pauses from time to time, and turns and heark- 
ens ; 

So walking here in twilight, O my friends ! 

I hear your voices, softened by the distance, 
And pause, and turn to listen, as each sends 

His words of friendship, comfort, and assistance. 

If any thought of mine, or sung or told. 
Has ever given delight or consolation. 

Ye have repaid me back a thousand-fold, 
By every friendly sign and salutation. 

Thanks for the sympathies that ye have shown ! 

Thanks for each kindly word, each silent token. 
That teaches me, when seeming most alone, 

Friends are around us, though no word be 
spoken. 



1 90 Dedication 

Kind messages, that pass from land to land ; 

Kind letters, that betray the heart's deep history, 
In which we feel the pressure of a hand, — 

One touch of fire, — and all the rest is mystery ! 

The pleasant books, that silently among 

Our household treasures take familiar places, 

And are to us as if a living tongue 

Spake from the printed leaves or pictured faces ! 

Perhaps on earth I never shall behold. 

With eye of sense, your outward form and sem- 
blance ; 
Therefore to me ye never will grow old. 

But live forever young in my remembrance. 

Never grow old, nor change, nor pass away ! 

Your gentle voices will flow on forever, 
When life grows bare and tarnished with decay, 

As through a leafless landscape flows a river. 



Not chance of birth or place has made us friends. 



Being oftentimes of different tongues and nations. 
But the endeavor for the selfsame ends, 

With the same hopes, and fears, and aspirations. 

Therefore I hope to join your seaside walk. 
Saddened, and mostly silent, with emotion ; 

Not interrupting with intrusive talk 

The grand, majestic symphonies of ocean. 



Dedication 191 

Therefore I hope, as no unwelcome guest, 

At your warm fireside, when the lamps are 
lighted, 

To have my place reserved among the rest, 
Nor stand as one unsought and uninvited ! 



BY THE SEASIDE 



VOL. V. 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP 

<'T)UILD me straight, O worthy Master! 

J3 Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel, 
That shall laugh at all disaster, 

And with wave and whirlwind wrestle ! " 

The merchant's word 

Delighted the Master heard ; 

For his heart was in his work, and the heart 

Giveth grace unto every Art. 

A quiet smile played round his lips, 

As the eddies and dimples of the tide 

Play round the bows of ships. 

That steadily at anchor ride. 

And with a voice that was full of glee. 

He answered, " Erelong we will launch 

A vessel as goodly, and strong, and stanch, 

As ever weathered a wintry sea ! " 



196 By the Seaside 

And first with nicest skill and art, . 

Perfect and finished in every part, 

A little model the Master wrought. 

Which should be to the larger plan 

What the child is to the man, 

Its counterpart in miniature ; 

That with a hand more swift and sure 

The greater labor might be brought 

To answer to his inward thought. 

And as he labored, his mind ran o'er 

The various ships that were built of yore. 

And above them all, and strangest of all 

Towered the Great Harry, crank and tall, 

Whose picture was hanging on the wall, 

With bows and stern raised high in air. 

And balconies hanging here and there, 

And signal lanterns and flags afloat, 

And eight round towers, like those that frown 

From some old castle, looking down 

Upon the drawbridge and the moat. 

And he said with a smile, " Qur ship, I wis. 

Shall be of another form than this ! " 

It was of another form, indeed ; 

Built for freight, and yet for speed, 

A beautiful and gallant craft ; 

Broad in the beam, that the stress of the blast, 

Pressing down upon sail and mast, 

Might not the sharp bows overwhelm ; 



The BiLilding of the Ship 197 

Broad in the beam, but sloping aft 
With graceful curve and slow degrees, 
That she might be docile to the helm, 
And that the currents of parted seas, 
Closing behind, with mighty force, 
Might aid and not impede her course. 

In the ship-yard stood the Master, 

With the model of the vessel. 
That should laugh at all disaster. 

And with wave and whirlwind wrestle ! 

Covering many a rood of ground, 

Lay the timber piled around ; 

Timber of chestnut, and elm, and oak, 

And scattered here and there, with these, 

The knarred and crooked cedar knees ; 

Brought from regions far away, 

From Pascagoula's sunny bay, 

And the banks of the roaring Roanoke ! 

Ah ! what a wondrous thing it is 

To note how many wheels of toil 

One thought, one word, can set in motion ! 

There 's not a ship that sails the ocean, 

But every climate, every soil. 

Must bring its tribute, great or small. 

And help to build the wooden wall ! 

The sun was risins: o'er the sea, 



}8 By tJic Seaside 

And long the level shadows lay, 
As if they, too, the beams would be 
Of some great, airy argosy. 
Framed and launched in a single day. 
That silent architect, the sun, 
Had hewn and laid them every one, 
Ere the work of man was yet begun. 
Beside the Master, when he spoke, 
A youth, against an anchor leaning, 
Listened, to catch his slightest meaning. 
Only the long waves, as they broke 
In ripples on the pebbly beach, 
Interrupted the old man's speech. 

Beautiful they were, in sooth, 

The old man and the fiery youth ! 

The old man, in whose busy brain 

Many a ship that sailed the main 

Was modelled o'er and o'er again ; — 

The fiery youth, who was to be 

The heir of his dexterity. 

The heir of his house, and his daughter s hand, 

When he had built and launched from land 

What the elder head- had planned. 

" Thus," said he, " will we build this ship ! 
Lay square the blocks upon the slip, 
And follow well this plan of mine. 
Choose the timbers with greatest care ; 



The Building of the Ship 199 

Of all that is unsound beware ; 
For only what is sound and strong 
To this vessel shall belong. - 
Cedar of Maine and Georgia pine 
Here together shall combine. 
A goodly frame, and a goodly fame, 
And the Union be her name ! 
For the day that gives her to the sea 
Shall give my daughter unto thee ! " 

The Master's word 

Enraptured the young man heard ; 

And as he turned his face aside, 

With a look of joy and a thrill of pride, 

Standing before 

Her father's door, 

He saw the form of his promised bride. 

The sun shone on her golden hair. 

And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair. 

With the breath of morn and the soft sea air. 

Like a beauteous Iparge was she, 

Still at rest on the sandy beach. 

Just beyond the billow's reach ; 

But he 

Was the restless, seething, stormy sea ! 

Ah, how skilful grows the hand 
That obeyeth Love's command ! 
It is the heart, and not the brain, 



200 By the Seaside 

That to the highest doth attain, 
And he who followeth Love's behest 
Far excelleth all the rest ! 

Thus with the rising of the sun 

Was the noble task begun, 

And soon throughout the ship-yard's bounds 

Were heard the intermingled sounds 

Of axes and of mallets, plied 

With vigorous arms on every side ; 

Plied so deftly and so well. 

That, ere the shadows of evening fell, 

The keel of oak for a noble ship. 

Scarfed and bolted, straight and strong, 

Was lying ready, and stretched along 

The blocks, well placed upon the sHp. 

Happy, thrice happy, every one 

Who sees his labor well begun. 

And not perplexed and multiplied, 

By idly waiting for time and tide ! 

* 
And when the hot long day was o'er, 
The young man at the Master's door' 
Sat with the maiden calm and still. 
And within the porch, a little more 
Removed beyond the evening chill. 
The father sat, and told them tales 
Of wrecks in the great September gales, 
Of pirates coasting the Spanish Main, 



TJie Building of the Ship 201 

And ships that never came back again, 

The chance and change of a sailor's Hfe, 

AVant and plenty, rest and strife, 

His roving fancy, like the wind, ' 1 

That nothing can stay and nothing can bind, I 

And the magic, charm of foreign lands, j 

With shadows of palms, and shining sands, i 

Where the tumbling surf, I 

O'er the coral reefs of Madagascar, 

Washes the feet of the swarthy Lascar, 

As he lies alone and asleep on the turf. ^ 

And the tremblins: maiden held her breath 1 

At the tales of that awful, pitiless sea, 1 

With all its terror and mystery, ] 

The dim, dark sea, so like unto Death, j 

That divides and yet unites mankind ! ; 

And whenever the old man paused, a gleam 

From the bowl of his pipe would awhile illume ' 

The silent group in the twilight gloom, j 

And thoughtful faces, as in a dream ; ] 

And for a moment one might mark ; 

What had been hidden by the dark. 

That the head of the maiden lay at rest, j 

Tenderly, on the young man's breast ! j 

Day by day the vessel grew^, i 

With timbers fashioned strong and true, 

Stemson and keelson and sternson-knee. 

Till, framed with perfect symmetry, 1 

9* i 



202 By the Seaside 

A skeleton ship rose up to view ! 

And around the bows and along the side 

The heavy hammers and mallets plied, 

Till after many a week, at length, 

Wonderful for form and strength, 

Sublime in its enormous bulk, 

Loomed aloft the shadowy hulk ! 

And around it columns of smoke, upwreathing. 

Rose from the boiling, bubbling, seething 

Caldron, that glowed. 

And overflowed 

With the black tar, heated for the sheathing. 

And amid the clamors 

Of clattering hammers, 

He who listened heard now and then 

The song of the Master and his men : — 

" Build me straight, O worthy Master, 
Stanch and strong, a goodly vessel, 

That shall laugh at all disaster. 

And with wave and whirlwind wrestle ! " 

With oaken brace and copper band. 

Lay the rudder on the sand. 

That, like a thought, should have control 

Over the movement of the whole ; 

And near it the anchor, whose giant hand 

Would reach down and grapple with the land, 

And immovable and fast 



TJie Bttilding of the Ship 203 

Hold the great ship against the bellowing blast ! 

And at the bows an image stood, 

By a cunning artist carved in wood, 

With robes of white, that far behind 

Seemed to be fluttering in the wind. 

It was not shaped in a classic mould, 

Not like a Nymph or Goddess of old, 

Or Naiad rising from the water. 

But modelled from the Master's daughter ! 

On many a dreary and misty night, 

'T will be seen by the rays of the signal light. 

Speeding along through the rain and the dark, 

Like a ghost in its snow-white sark, 

The pilot of some phantom bark. 

Guiding the vessel, in its flight. 

By a path none other knows aright ! 

Behold, at last, 

Each tall and tapering mast 

Is swung into its place ; 

Shrouds and stays 

Holding it firm and fast ! 

Long ago. 

In the deer-haunted forests of Maine, 

When upon mountain and plain 

Lay the snow. 

They fell, — those lordly pines ! 

Those grand, majestic pines ! 

'Mid shouts and cheers 



204 By the Seaside \ 

The jaded steers, '■ 

Panting beneath the goad, I 

Dragged down the weary, winding road • 

Those captive kings so straight and tall, ^ 

To be shorn of their streaming hair, ; 

And, naked and bare, j 

To feel the stress and the strain i 

Of the wind and the reeling main, ^ _ 

Whose roar / 

Weuld remind them forevermore i 

Of their native forests they should not see again. 

And ever}'where 

The slender, graceful spars 

Poise aloft in the air. 

And at the mast-head, J 

White, blue, and red, 

A flag unrolls the stripes and stars. 

Ah ! when the wanderer, lonely, friendless, ] 

In foreign harbors shall behold ■ 

That flag unrolled, 

'Twill be as a friendly hand I 

Stretched out from his native land, 

Filling his heart with memories sweet and endless ! 

All is finished ! and at length 
Has come the bridal day 
Of beauty and of strength. 
To-day the vessel shall be launched ! 



The Btiilding of the Ship 205 j 

With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched, j 

And o'er the bay, I 

Slowly, in all his splendors dight, i 

The great sun rises to behold the sight. ; 

The ocean old, ] 

Centuries old, .] 

Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled, ■ 

Paces restless to and fro, 

Up and down the sands of gold. 

His beating heart is not at rest ; i 

And far and wide, 

With ceaseless flow, 

His beard of snow 

Heaves with the heaving of his breast. 

He waits impatient for his bride. ^ 

There she stands, \ 

With her foot upon the sands, | 

Decked with flags and streamers gay, 

In honor of her marriage day, 

Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending, 

Round her like a veil descending, 

Ready to be I 

The bride of the gray old sea. \ 

On the deck another bride 

Is standing by her lover's side. 

Shadows from the flags and shrouds, 

Like the shadows cast by clouds, ' 



2o6 By the Seaside 

Broken by many a sunny fleck, 
Fall around them on the deck. 

The prayer is said, 

The service read, 

The joyous bridegroom bows his head ; 

And in tears the good old Master 

Shakes the brown hand of his son, 

Kisses his daughter's glowing cheek 

In silence, for he cannot speak, 

And ever faster 

Down his own the tears begin to run. 

The worthy pastor — 

The shepherd of that wandering flock, 

That has the ocean for its wold. 

That has the vessel for its fold, 

Leaping ever from rock to rock — 

Spake, with accents mild and clear, 

Words of warning, words of cheer. 

But tedious to the bridegroom's ear. 

He knew the chart 

Of the sailor's heart. 

All its pleasures and its griefs. 

All its shallows and rocky reefs. 

All those secret currents, that flow 

With such resistless undertow. 

And lift and drift, with terrible force, 

The will from its moorings and its course. 

Therefore he spake, and thus said he : — 



The Building of the Ship 207 

" Like unto ships far off at sea, 

Outward or homeward bound, are we. 

Before, behind, and all around, 

Floats and swings the horizon's bound, 

Seems at its distant rim to rise 

And climb the crystal wall of the skies, 

And then again to turn and sink, 

As if we could slide from its outer brink. 

Ah ! it is not the sea, 

It is not the sea that sinks and shelves, 

But ourselves 

That rock and rise 

With endless and uneasy motion, 

Now touching the very skies. 

Now sinking into the depths of ocean. 

Ah ! if our souls but poise and swing 

Like the compass in its brazen ring, 

Ever level and ever true 

To the toil and the task v;e hi\-e to do. 

We shall sail securely, and safely reach 

The Fortunate Isles, on whose shining beach 

The sights we see, and the sounds we hear, 

Will be those of joy and not of fear ! " 

Then the Master, 

With a gesture of command, 

Waved his hand -, 

And at the word, 

Loud and sudden there was heard, 



2o8 By the Seaside 

All around them and below, 

The sound of hammers, blow on blow, 

Knocking away the shores and spurs. 

And see ! she stirs ! 

She starts, — she moves, — she seems to feel 

The thrill of life along her keel. 

And, spurning with her foot the ground, 

With one exulting, joyous bound. 

She leaps into the ocean's arms ! 

And lo ! from the assembled crowd 
There rose a shout, prolonged and loud, 
That to the ocean seemed to say, 
"Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray. 
Take her to thy protecting arms. 
With all her youth and all her charms ! " 

How beautiful she is ! How fair 

She lies within those arms, that press 

Her form with many a soft caress 

Of tenderness and watchful care ! 

Sail forth into the sea, O ship ! 

Through wind and wave, right onward steer I 

The moistened eye, the trembling lip. 

Are not the signs of doubt or fear. 

Sail forth into the sea of life, 
O gentle, loving, trusting wife, 
And safe from all adversity 



The Building of the Ship 209 

Upon the bosom of that sea 
Thy comings and thy goings be ! 
For gentleness and love and trust 
Prevail o'er angry wave and gust ; 
And in the wreck of noble lives 
Something immortal still survives ! 

Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State ! 

Sail on, O Union, strong and great! 

Humanity with all its fears, 

With all the hopes of future years, 

Is hanging breathless on thy fate ! 

We know what Master laid thy keel, 

What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, 

Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, 

What anvils rang, what hammers beat. 

In what a forge and what a heat 

Were shaped the anchors of thy hope ! 

Fear not each sudden sound and shock, 

'T is of the wave and not the rock ; 

'T is but the flapping of the sail. 

And not a rent made by the gale ! 

In spite of rock and tempest's roar. 

In spite of false lights on the shore. 

Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea 1 

Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee. 

Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, 

Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, 

Are all with thee, — are all with thee ! 

VOL. v. N 



2IO By the Seaside 



CHRYSAOR. 

JUST above yon sandy bar, 
As the day grows fainter and dimmer, 
Lonely and lovely, a single star 

Lights the air with a dusky glimmer. 

Into the ocean faint and far 

Falls the trail of its golden splendor, 
And the gleam of that single star 

Is ever refulgent, soft, and tender. 

Chrysaor rising out of the sea, 

Showed thus glorious and thus emulous, 
Leaving the arms of Callirrhoe, 

Forever tender, soft, and tremulous. 

Thus o'er the ocean faint and far 

Trailed the gleam of his falchion brightly ; 
Is it a God, or is it a star 

That, entranced, I gaze on nightly 1 



The Secret of the Sea 2 1 1 



THE SECRET OF THE SEA 

AH ! what pleasant visions haunt me 
As I gaze upon the sea ! 
All the old romantic legends, 

All my dreams, come back to me. 

Sails of silk and ropes of sendal, 
Such as gleam in ancient lore ; 

And the singing of the sailors, 
And the answer from the shore ! 

Most of all, the Spanish ballad 
Haunts me oft, and tarries long, 

Of the noble Count Arnaldos 
And the sailor's mystic song. 

Like the long waves on a sea-beach, 
Where the sand as silver shines, 

With a soft, monotonous cadence, 
Flow its unrhymed lyric lines ; — 

Telling how the Count Arnaldos, 
With his hawk upon his hand, 

Saw a fair and stately galley. 
Steering onward to the land ; — 



212 By the Seaside 

How he heard the ancient hehnsman 
Chant a song so wild and clear, 

That the sailing sea-bird slowly- 
Poised upon the mast to hear, 

Till his soul was full of longing, 

And he cried, with impulse strong, — 

" Helmsman ! for the love of heaven, 
Teach me, too, that wondrous song ! " 

" Wouldst thou," — so the helmsman answered, 

" Learn the secret of the sea ? 
Only those who brave its dangers 

Comprehend its mystery I " 

In each sail that skims the horizon. 
In each landward-blowing breeze, 

I behold that stately galley, 

Hear those mournful melodies ; 

Till my soul is full of longing 

For the secret of the sea, 
And the heart of the great ocean 

Sends a thrilling pulse through me. 



Twilight 



TWILIGHT 

THE twilight is sad and cloudy, 
The wind blows wild and free, 
And like the wings of sea-birds 
Flash the white caps of the sea. 

But in the fisherman's cottage 
There shines a ruddier light, 

And a little face at the window 
Peers out into the night. 

Close, close it is pressed to the window, 

As if those childish eyes 
Were looking into the darkness. 

To see some form arise. 

And a woman's waving shadow 

Is passing to and fro, 
Now rising to the ceiling, 

Now bowing and bending low. 

What tale do the roaring ocean, 

And the night-wind, bleak and wild. 

As they beat at the crazy casement, 
Tell to that little child ? 



214 ^y ^^^^ Seaside 

And why do the roaring ocean, 

And the night-wind, wild and bleak, 

As they beat at the heart of the mother, 
Drive the color from her cheek ? 



SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT 

SOUTHWARD with fleet of ice 
Sailed the corsair Death ; 
Wild and fast blew the blast, 

And the east-wind was his breath. 

His lordly ships of ice 

Glisten in the sun ; 
On each side, like pennons wide, 

Flashing crystal streamlets run. 

His sails of white sea-mist 

Dripped with silver rain ; 
But where he passed there were cast 

Leaden shadows o'er the main. 

Eastward from Campobello 
Sir Humphrey Gilbert sailed ; 

Three days or more seaward he bore, 
Then, alas ! the land-wind failed. 



Sir Humphrey Giibert 215 

Alas ! the land-wind failed, 

And ice-cold grew the night ; 
And never more, on sea or shore, 

Should Sir Humphrey see the light. 

He sat upon the deck, 

The Book was in his hand ; 
" Do not fear ! Heaven is as near," 

He said, " by water as by land ! " • 

In the first watch of the night. 

Without a signal's sound, 
Out of the sea, mysteriously, 

The fleet of Death rose all around. 

The moon and the evening star 

Were hanging in the shrouds ; 
Every mast, as it passed. 

Seemed to rake the passing clouds. 

They grappled with their prize, 

At midnight black and cold ! 
As of a rock was the shock ; 

Heavily the ground-swell rolled. 

Southward through day and dark, 

They drift in close embrace, 
With mist and rain, o'er the open main ; 

Yet there seems no change of place. 



2i6 'By the Seaside 

Southward, forever southward, 
They drift through dark and day ; 

And Uke a dream, in the Gulf-Stream 
Sinking, vanish all away. 



THE LIGHTHOUSE 

THE rocky ledge runs far into the sea, 
And on its outer point, some miles away, 
The Lighthouse lifts its massive masonry, 
A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day. 

Even at this distance I can see the tides. 
Upheaving, break unheard along its base, 

A speechless wrath, that rises and subsides 
In the white lip and tremor of the face. 

And as the evening darkens, lo ! how bright. 
Through the deep purple of the twilight air, 

Beams forth the sudden radiance of its light 
With strange, unearthly splendor in the glare ! 

Not one alone ; from each projecting cape 
And perilous reef along the ocean's verge, 

Starts into life a dim, gigantic shape. 

Holding its lantern o'er the restless surge. 



The LightJiotise 217 

Like the great giant Christopher it stands 
Upon the brink of the tempestuous wave, 

Wading far out among the rocks and sands, 
The nidit-o'ertaken mariner to save. 

o 

And the great ships sail outward and return, 
Bending and bowing o'er the billowy swells, 

And ever joyful, as they see it burn, 

They wave their silent welcomes and farewells. 

They come forth from the darkness, and their sails 
Gleam for a moment only in the blaze, 

And eager faces, as the light unveils, 

Gaze at the tower, and vanish while they gaze. 

The mariner remembers when a child, 

On his first voyage, he saw it fade and sink ; 

And when, returning from adventures wild. 
He saw it rise again o'er ocean's brink. 

Steadfast, serene, immovable, the same 

Year after year, through all the silent night 

Burns on forevermore that quenchless flame, 
Shines on that inextinguishable light ! 

It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp 

The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace ; 
It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp, 

And hold it up, and shake it like a fleece. 

VOL, V. 10 



2i8 By the Seaside 

The startled waves leap over it ; the storm 
Smites it with all the scourges of the rain, 

And steadily against its solid form 

Press the great shoulders of the hurricane. 

The sea-bird wheeling round it, with the din 
Of wings and winds and solitary cries, 

Blinded and maddened by the light within, 
Dashes himself against the glare, and dies. 

A new Prometheus, chained upon the rock, 
Still grasping in his hand the fire of Jove, 

It does not hear the cry, nor heed the shock. 
But hails the mariner with words of love. 

" Sail on ! " it says, " sail on, ye stately ships ! 

And with your floating bridge the ocean span ; 
Be mine to guard this light from all eclipse, 

Be yours to bring man nearer unto man 1 " 



THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD 

DEVEREUX FARM, NEAR MARBLEHEAD 

WE sat within the farm-house old, 
Whose windows, looking o'er the bay. 
Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold. 
An easy entrance, night and day. 



The Fii'e of Drift - Wood 2 1 9 

Not far away we saw the port, 

The strange, old-fashioned, silent town, 

The lighthouse, the dismantled fort. 
The wooden houses, quaint and brown. 

We sat and talked until the night, 
Descending, filled the little room ; 

Our faces faded from the sight. 
Our voices only broke the gloom. 

We spake of many a vanished scene, 
Of what we once had thought and said, 

Of what had been, and might have been, 
And who was changed, and who was dead ; 

And all that fills the hearts of friends, 
When first they feel, with secret pain, 

Their lives thenceforth have separate ends, 
And never can be one again ; 

The first slight swerving of the heart. 
That words are powerless to express. 

And leave it still unsaid in part. 
Or say it in too great excess. 

The very tones in which we spake 

Had something strange, I could but mark ; 

The leaves of memory seemed to make 
A mournful rustling in the dark. 



220 By the Seaside 

Oft died the words upon our lips, 

As suddenly, from out the fire 
Built of the wreck of stranded ships, 

The flames would leap and then expire. 

And, as their splendor flashed and failed, 
We thought of wrecks upon the main, 

Of ships dismasted, that were hailed 
And sent no answer back again. 

The windows, rattling in their frames, 
The ocean, roaring up the beach. 

The gusty blast, the bickering flames. 
All mingled vaguely in our speech ; 

Until they made themselves a part 
Of fancies floating through the brain, 

The long-lost ventures of the heart, 
That send no answers back again. 

O flames that glowed ! O hearts that yearned ! 

They were indeed too much akin, 
The drift-wood fire without that burned. 

The thoughts that burned and glowed within. 



BY THE FI RESIDE 



RESIGNATION 

THERE is no flock, however watched and 
tended, 
But one dead lamb is there ! 
Tiiere is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, 
But has one vacant chair ! 

The air is full of farewells to the dying, 

And mournings for the dead ; 
The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, 

Will not be comforted ! 

Let us be patient ! These severe afflictions 
. Not from the ground arise, 
But oftentimes celestial benedictions 
Assume this dark disguise. 

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors ; 

Amid these earthly damps 
What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers 

May be heaven's distant lamps. 



224 Resignation 

There is no Death ! What seems so is transition ; 

This Ufe of mortal breath 
Is but a suburb of the Ufe elysian, 

Whose jDortal we call Death. 

She is not dead, — the child of our affection, — 

But gone unto that school 
Where she no longer needs our poor protection, 

And Christ himself doth rule. 

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, 

By guardian angels led. 
Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, 

She lives, whom we call dead. 

Day after day we think what she is doing 

In those bright realms of air ; 
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing. 

Behold her grown more fair. 

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken 

The bond which nature gives. 
Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, 

May reach her where she lives. 

Not as a child shall we again behold her ; 

For when with raptures wild 
In our embraces we again enfold her, 

She will not be a child ; 



By the Fireside 225 

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, 

Clothed with celestial grace ; 
And beautiful with all the soul's expansion 

Shall we behold her face. 

And though at times impetuous with emotion 

And anguish long suppressed, 
The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, 

That cannot be at rest, — 

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling 

We may not wholly stay ; 
By silence sanctifying, not concealing. 

The grief that must have way. 



THE BUILDERS 

ALL are architects of Fate, 
Working in these walls of Time ; 
Some with massive deeds and great, 
Some with ornaments of rhyme. 

Nothing useless is, or low ; 

Each thing in its place is best ; 
And what seems but idle show 

Strengthens and supports the rest. 



226 The Builders 

For the structure that we raise, 
Time is with materials filled ; 

Our to-days and yesterdays 

Are the blocks with which we build. 

Truly shape and fashion these ; 

Leave no yawning gaps between ; 
Think not, because no man sees, 

Such things will remain unseen. 

In the elder days of Art, 

Builders wrought with greatest care 
Each minute and unseen part ; 

For the Gods see everywhere. 

Let us do our work as well, 
Both the unseen and the seen ; 

Make the house, where Gods may dwell, 
Beautiful, entire, and clean. 

Else our lives are incomplete. 
Standing in these walls of Time, 

Broken stairways, where the feet 
Stumble as they seek to climb. 

Build to-day, then, strong and sure, 
With a firm and ample base ; 

And ascending .and secure 

Shall to-morrow find its place. 



Sand of the Desert 227 

Thus alone can we attain 

To those turrets, where the eye 

Sees the world as one vast plain, 
And one boundless reach of sky. 



SAND OF THE DESERT IN AN 
HOUR-GLASS 



A 



HANDFUL of red sand, from the hot clime 
Of Arab deserts brought. 
Within this glass becomes the spy of Time, 
The minister of Thought. 



How many weary centuries has it been 

About those deserts blown ! 
How many strange vicissitudes has seen, 

How many histories known ! 

Perhaps the camels of the Ishmaelite 
Trampled and passed it o'er. 

When into Eg}^pt from the patriarch's sight 
His favorite son they bore. 

Perhaps the feet of Moses, burnt and bare, 
Crushed it beneath their tread ; 

Or Pharaoh's flashing wheels into the air 
Scattered it as they sped ; 



228 By tJic Fireside ] 

Or Mary, with the Christ of Nazareth j 

Held close in her caress, ! 

Whose pilgrimage of hope and love and faith j 

Illumed the wilderness ; \ 

Or anchorites beneath Engaddi's palms ; 

Pacing the Dead Sea beach, | 

And singing slow their old Armenian psalms \ 

In half-articulate speech ; 

1 

J 

Or caravans, that from Bassora's gate j 

With westward steps depart ; ' 

Or Mecca's pilgrims, confident of Fate, ] 
And resolute in heart ! 

These have passed over it, or may have passed ! ' 

Now in this crystal tower I 

Imprisoned by some curious hand at last, , 

It counts the passing hour. I 

And as I gaze, these narrow walls expand ; 

Before my dreamy eye ' 

Stretches the desert with its shifting sand, i 

Its unimpeded sky. I 

I 

And borne aloft by the sustaining blast, i 

This little golden thread 

Dilates into a column high and vast, 

A form of fear and dread. 



Birds of Passage 229 

And onward, and across the setting sun, 

Across the boundless plain, 
The coluni'i and its broader shadow run, 

Till thought pursues in vain. 

The vision vanishes ! These walls- again 

Shut out the lurid sun, 
Shut out the hot, immeasurable plain ; 

The half-hour's sand is run ! 



BIRDS OF PASSAGE 

BLACK shadows fall 
From the lindens tall, 
That lift aloft their massive wall 
Against the southern sky \ 

And from the realms 
Of the shadowy elms 
A tide-like darkness overwhelms 
The fields that round us lie. 

But the night is fair, 
And everywhere 
A warm, soft vapor fills the air. 
And distant sounds seem near 



230 , By the Fireside 

And above, in the light 
Of the star-lit night, 
Swift birds of passage wing their flight 
Through the dewy atmosphere. 

I hear the beat 
Of their pinions fleet, 
As from the land of snow and sleet 
They seek a southern lea. 

I hear the cry 
Of their voices high 
Falling dreamily through the sky, 
But their forms I cannot see. 

O, say not so ! 
Those sounds that flow 
In murmurs of delight and woe 
Come not from wings of birds. 

They are the throngs 
Of the poet's songs, 

Murmurs of pleasures, and pains, and wrongs, 
The sound of winged words. 

This is the cry 
Of souls, that high 
On toiling, beating pinions, fly, 
Seeking a warmer clime. 



The Open Window 23 

From their distant flight 
Through realms of Hght 
It falls into our world of night, 

With the murmuring sound of rhyme. 



THE OPEN WINDOW 

THE old house by the lindens 
Stood silent in the shade, 
And on the gravelled pathway 
The light and shadow played. 

I saw the nursery windows 

Wide open to the air ; 
But the faces of the children, 

They were no longer there. 

The large Newfoundland house-dog 
Was standing by the door ; 

He looked for his little playmates, 
Who would return no more. 

They walked not under the lindens. 
They played not in the hall ; 

But shadow, and silence, and sadness 
Were hanging over all. 



232 By the Fireside 

The birds sang in the branches, 
With sweet, famihar tone ; 

But the voices of the children 
AVill be heard in dreams alone ! 

And the boy that walked beside me, 
He could not understand 

Why closer in mine, ah ! closer, 
I pressed his warm, soft hand ! 



KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-HORN 

WITLAF, a king of the Saxons, 
Ere yet his last he breathed. 
To the merry monks of Croyland 
His drinking-horn bequeathed, — 

That, whenever they sat at their revels, 
And drank from the golden bowl, 

They might remember the donor. 
And breathe a prayer for his soul. 

So sat they once at Christmas, 

And bade the goblet pass ; 
In their beards the red wine glistened 

Like devv-dr'ops in the grass. 



King Witlafs Drinking- Horn 233 

They drank to ihe soul of Witlaf, 

They drank to Christ the Lord, 
And to each of the Twelve Apostles, 

Who had preached his holy word. 

They drank to the Saints and Martyrs 

Of the dismal days of yore, 
And as soon as the horn was empty 

They remembered one Saint more. 

And the reader droned from the pulpit, 

Like the murmur of many bees, 
The legend of good Saint Guthlac, 

And Saint Basil's homilies ; 

Till the great bells of the convent. 

From their prison in the tower, 
Guthlac and Bartholoma^us, 

Proclaimed the midnight hour. 

And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney. 

And the Abbot bowed his head, 
And the flamelets flapped and flickered, 

But the Abbot was stark and dead. 

Yet still in his pallid fingers 

He clutched the golden bowl. 
In which, like a pearl dissolving, 

Had sunk and dissolved his soul. 



234 ^y ^^^^' Fireside 

But not for this their revels 
The jovial monks forbore, 

For they cried, " Fill high the goblet ! 
We must drink to one Saint more ! " 



CASPAR BECERRA 

BY his evening fire the artist 
Pondered o'er his secret shame ; 
Baffled, weary, and disheartened, 

Still he mused, and dreamed of fame. 

'T was an image of the Virgin 

That had tasked his utmost skill ; 

But alas ! his fair ideal 

Vanished and escaped him still. 

From a distant Eastern island 

Had the precious wood been brought ; 
Day and night the anxious master 

At his toil untiring wrought ; 

Till, discouraged and desponding, 
Sat he now in shadows deep. 

And the day's humiliation 
Found oblivion in sleep. 



Pegasus in Pound 235 

Then a voice cried, " Rise, O master! 

From the burning brand of oak 
Shape the thought that stirs within thee ! " 

And the startled artist woke, — 

Woke, and from the smoking embers 

Seized and quenched the glowing wood ; 

And therefrom he carved an image, 
And he saw that it was good. 

O thou sculptor, painter, poet I 

Take this lesson to thy heart : 
That is best which lieth nearest ; 

Shape from that thy work of art. 



PEGASUS IN POUND 

ONCE into a quiet village, 
Without haste and without heed, 
In the golden prime of morning, 
Strayed the poet's winged steed. 

It was Autumn, and incessant 

Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves, 
And, like living coals, the apples 

Burned among the withering leaves. 



236 By the Fireside 

Loud the clamorous bell was ringing 
From its belfry gaunt and grim ; 

'T was the daily call to labor, 
Not a triumph meant for him. 

Not the less he saw the landscape, 
In its gleaming vapor veiled ; 

Not the less he breathed the odors 
That the dying leaves exhaled. 

Thus, upon the village common, 
By the school-boys he was found ; 

And the wise men, in their wisdom, 
Put him straightway into pound. 



Then the sombre village crier, 
Ringing loud his brazen bell, 

Wandered down the street proclaiming 
There was an estray to sell. 



And the curious country people, 
Rich and poor, and young and old, 

Came in haste to see this wondrous 
Winged steed, with mane of gold. 

Thus the day passed, and the evening 
Fell, with vapors cold and dim ; 

But it brought no food nor shelter, 
Brought no straw nor stall, for him. 



Pegasus in Pound 237 

Patiently, and still expectant, 

Looked he through the wooden bars, 

Saw the moon rise o'er the landscape, 
Saw the tranquil, patient stars ; 



Till at length the bell at midnight 
Sounded from its dark abode. 

And, from out a neighboring farm-yard, 
Loud the cock Alectryon crowed. 

Then, with nostrils wide distended, 
Breaking from his iron chain, 

And unfolding far his pinions. 
To those stars he soared again. 

On the morrow, when the village 
Woke to all its toil and care, 

Lo ! the strange steed had departed, 
And they knew not when nor where. 

But they found, upon the greensward 
Where his struggling hoofs had trod. 

Pure and bright, a fountain flowing 
From the hoof-marks in tire sod. 



From that hour, the fount unfailing 
Gladdens the whole region round, 

Strengthening all who drink its waters. 
While it soothes them with its sound. 



238 By the Fireside \ 



TEGNER'S DRAPA 

I HEARD a voice, that cried, 
" Balder the Beautiful 
Is dead, is dead ! " 
And through the misty air 
Passed like the mournful cry 
Of sunward sailing cranes. 

I saw the pallid corpse 

Of the dead sun 

Borne through the Northern sky. 

Blasts from Niffelheim 

Lifted the sheeted mists 

Around him as he passed. 

And the voice forever cried, 

" Balder the Beautiful 

Is dead, is dead ! " 

And died away 

Through the dreary night. 

In accents of despair. 

Balder the Beautiful, 
God of the summer sun, 
Fairest of all the Gods ! 
Light from his forehead beamed, 



Tegn:rs Drapa 239 

Runes were upon his tongue, 
As on the warrior's sword. 

All things in earth and air 
Bound were by magic spell 
Never to do him harm ; 
Even the plants and stones ; 
All save the mistletoe, 
The sacred mistletoe! 

Hoeder, the blind old God, 
Whose feet are shod with silence, 
Pierced through that gentle breast 
With his sharp spear, by fraud 
Made of the mistletoe, 
The accursed mistletoe ! 

They laid him in his ship, 
With horse and harness, 
As on a funeral pyre. 
Odin placed 
A ring upon his finger, 
And whispered in his ear. 

They launched the burning ship ! 

It floated far away 

Over the misty sea, 

Till like the sun it seemed, 

Sinking beneath the waves. 

Balder returned no more ! 



240 By the Fireside 

So perish the old Gods ! 

But out of the sea of Time 

Rises a new land of song, 

Fairer than the old. 

Over its meadows green 

AValk the young bards and sing. 

Build it again, 

O ye bards, 

Fairer than before ! 

Ye fathers of the new race. 

Feed upon morning dew, 

Sing the new Song of Love ! 

The law of force is dead ! 
T*he law of love prevails 1 
Thor, the thunderer, 
Shall rule the earth no more, 
No more, with threats, 
Challenge the meek Christ. 

Sing no more, 
O ye bards of the North, 
Of Vikings and of Jarls ! 
Of the days of Eld 
Preserve the freedom only, 
Not the deeds of blood ! 



Somtet 24 1 



SONNET 

ON MRS. KEMBLE's READINGS FROM SHAKESPEARE 

O PRECIOUS evenings ! all too swiftly sptid ! 
Leaving us heirs to amplest heritages 

Of all the best thoughts of the greatest sages, 

And giving tongues unto the silent dead ! 
How our hearts glowed and trembled as she read, 

Interpreting by tones the wondrous pages 

Of the great poet who foreruns the ages, 

Anticipating all that shall be said ! 
O happy Reader ! having for thy text 

The magic book, whose Sibylline leaves have 
caught 

The rarest essence of all human thought ! 
O happy Poet ! by no critic vext ! 

How must thy listening spirit now rejoice 

To be interpreted by such a voice ! 



THE SINGERS 

GOD sent his Singers upon earth 
With songs of sadness and of mirth, 
That they might touch the hearts of men, 
And bring them back to heaven again, 



242 By the Fireside 

The first, a youth, with soul of fire, 

Held in his hand a golden lyre ; 

Through groves he wandered, and by streams, 

Playing the music of our dreams. 

The second, with a bearded face. 
Stood singing in the market-place, 
And stirred with accents deep and loud 
The hearts of all the listening crowd. 

A gray old man, the third and last, 
Sang in cathedrals dim and vast, 
While the majestic organ rolled 
Contrition from its mouths of gold. 

And those who heard the Singers three 
Disputed which the best might be ; 
For still their music seemed to start 
Discordant echoes in each heart. 

But the great Master said, " I see 

No best in kind, but in degree ; 

I gave a various gift to each. 

To charm, to strengthen, and to teach. 

" These are the three great chords of might, 
And he whose ear is tuned aright 
Will hear no discord in the three, 
But the most perfect harmony." 



Suspiria 243 



SUSPIRIA 



TAKE them, O Death ! and bear away 
Whatever thou canst call thine own ! 
Thine image, stamped upon this clay. 
Doth give thee that, but that alone ! 

Take them, O Grave ! and let them lie 
Folded upon thy narrow shelves, 

As garments by the soul laid by. 
And precious only to ourselves ! 

Take them, O great Eternity ! 

Our little life is but a gust 
That bends the branches of thy tree, 

And trails its blossoms in the dust ! 



HYMN 

FOR MY brother's ORDINATION 

CHRIST to the young man said : " Yet one 
thing more ; 
If thou wouldst perfect be. 
Sell all thou hast and give it to the poor, 
And come and follow me ! " 



244 ^y ^^^^ Fireside 

Within this temple Christ again, unseen, 
Those sacred words hath said, 

And his invisible hands to-day have been 
Laid on a young man's head. 

And evermore beside him on his way 
The unseen Christ shall move, 

That he may lean upon his arm and say, 
" Dost thou, dear Lord, approve ? " 

Beside him at the marriage feast shall be, 
To make the scene more fair ; 

Beside him in the dark Gethsemane 
Of pam and midnight prayer. 

O holy trust ! O endless sense of rest ! 

Like the beloved John 
To lay his head upon the Saviour's breast, 

And thus to journey on ! 



THE 



BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL-CUILLE 



FROM THE GASCON OF JASMIN 



Only the Lowland tongue of Scotland might 
Rehearse this little tragedy arigh.": ; 
Let me attempt it with an English quill ; 
And take, O Reader, for the deed the will. 



THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL-CUILLE 



FROM THE GASCON OF JASMIN 



A 



I. 



T the foot of the mountain height 
Where is perched Castel-Cuille, 
When the apple, the plum, and the almond tree 
In the plain below were growing white, 
This is the song one might perceive 
On a Wednesday morn of Saint Joseph's Eve : 

"The roads should blossom, the roads should 

bloom. 
So fair a bride shall leave her home ! 
Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, 
So fair a bride shall pass to-day ! " 

This old Te Deum, rustic rites attending, 
Seemed from the clouds descending; 
When lo ! a merry company 

Of rosy village girls, clean as the eye. 
Each one with her attendant swain. 

Came to the cliff, all singing the same strain ; 

Resembling there, so near unto the sky, 



248 By the Fireside 

Rejoicing angels, that kind Heaven has sent 
For their dehght and our encouragement. 

Together blending, 

And soon descending 

The narrow sweep 

Of the hillside steep, 

They wind aslant 

Towards Saint Amant, 

Through leafy alleys 

Of verdurous valleys 

With merry sallies 

Singing their chant : 

"The roads should blossom, the roads should 

bloom, 
So fair a bride shall leave her home ! 
Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, 
So fair a bride shall pass to-day ! " 

It is Baptiste, and his affianced maiden, 
With garlands for the bridal laden ! 

The sky was blue ; without one cloud of gloom, 
The sun of March was shining brightly. 

And to the air the freshening wind gave lightly 
Its breathings of perfume. 

When one beholds the dusky hedges blossom, 
A rustic bridal, ah ! how sweet it is ! 



The Blind Girl of Castcl-Cuille 249 

To sounds of joyous melodies, 
That touch with tenderness the trembhng bosom, 
A band of maidens 
Gayly froUcking, 
A band of youngsters 
Wildly rollicking ! 
Kissing, 
Caressing, 
With fingers pressing, 

Till in the veriest 
Madness of mirth, as they dance, 
They retreat and advance. 

Trying whose laugh shall be loudest 
and merriest ; 
While the bride, with roguish eyes, 
Sporting with them, now escapes and cries : 
" Those who catch me 
Married verily 
This year shall be ! " 

And all pursue with eager haste, 
And all attain what they pursue, 
And touch her pretty apron fresh and new, 
And the linen kirtle round her waist. 

Meanwhile, whence comes it that among 
These youthful maidens fresh and fair. 
So joyous, with such laughing air, 
Baptiste stands sighing, with silent tongue ? 



250 By the Fireside 

And yet the bride is fair and young ! 
Is it Saint Joseph would say to us all, 
That love, o'er-hasty, precedeth a fall ? 

O no ! for a maiden frail, I trow, 

Never bore so lofty a brow ! 
What lovers ! they give not a single caress ! 
To see them so careless and cold to-day, 

These are grand people, one would say. 
AVhat ails Baptiste ? what grief doth him oppress ? 

It is, that, half-way up the hill. 
In yon cottage, by whose walls 
Stand the cart-house and the stalls, 
Dwelleth the blind orphan still, 
Daughter of a veteran old ; 
And you must know, one year ago, 
That Margaret, the young and tender, 
Was the village pride and splendor, 
And Baptiste her lover bold. 
Love, the deceiver, them ensnared ; 
For them the altar was prepared ; 
But alas ! the summer's blight. 
The dread disease that none can stay, 
The pestilence that walks by night, 
Took the young bride's sight away. 

All at the father's stern command was changed ; 
Their peace was gone, but not their love estranged. 
Wearied at home, erelong the lover fled ; 



The Blind Girl of CastH-CuiUc 251 

Returned but three short days ago, 
The golden chain they round him throw, 
He is enticed, and onward led 
To marry Angela, and yet 
Is thinking ever of Margaret. 

Then suddenly a m liden cried, 
" Anna, Theresa, Mary, Kate ! 
Here comes the cripple Jane ! " And by a foun- 
tain's side 
A woman, bent and gray with years, 
Under the mulberry-trees appears, 
And all towards her run, as fleet 
As had they wings upon their feet. 

It is that Jane, the cripple Jane, 
Is a soothsayer, wary and kind. 
She telleth fortunes, and none complain. 
She promises one a village swain, 
Another a happy wedding-day, 
And the bride a lovely boy straightway. 
All comes to pass as she avers ; 
She never deceives, she never errs. 

But for this once the village seer 
Wears a countenance severe. 
And from beneath her eyebrows thin and white 
Her two eyes flash like cannons bright 
Aimed at the bridegroom in waistcoat blue. 



252 • By the Fireside 

Who, like a statue, stands in view ; 
Changing color, as well he might, 
When the beldame wrinkled and gray- 
Takes the young bride by the hand, 
And, with the tip of her reedy wand 
Making the sign of the cross, doth say : — 
" Thoughtless Angela, beware ! 
Lest, when thou weddest this false bridegroom, 
Thou diggest for thyself a tomb ! " 

And she was silent \ and the maidens fair 

Saw from each eye escape a swollen tear ; 

But on a little streamlet silver-clear. 

What are two drops of turbid rain ? 
Saddened a moment, the bridal train 
Resumed the dance and song again ; 

The bridegroom only was pale with fear ; — 
And down green alleys 
Of verdurous valleys, 
With merry sallies, 
They sang the refrain : — 

" The roads should blossom, the roads should 

bloom. 
So fair a bride shall leave her home ! 
Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, 
So fair a bride shall pass to-day ! " 



A 



The Bit. id Girl of Castll-Ciullc 253 



II 



ND by suffering worn and weary, 

But beautiful as some fair angel yet, 
Thus lamented Margaret, 
In her cottage lone and dreary : — 



" He has arrived ! arrived at last ! 
Yet Jane has named him not these three days past ^ 

Arrived ! yet kee})S aloof so far ! 
And knows that of my night he is the star ! 
Knows that long months I wait alone, benighted, 
And count the moments since he went away ! 
Come ! keep the promise of that happier day. 
That I may keep the faith to thee I plighted ! 
What joy have I without thee? what delight? 
Grief wastes my life, and makes it misery ; 
Day for the others ever, but for me 

Forever night ! forever night ! 
When he is gone 't is dark ! my soul is sad ! 
I suffer ! O my God ! come, make me glad. 
Wlien he is near, no thoughts of day intrude ; 
Day has blue heavens, but Baptiste has blue eyes ! 
Within them shines for me a heaven of love, 
A heaven all happiness, like that above, 

No more of grief! no more of lassitude ! 



254 ^y ^-^^ Fireside 

Earth I forget, — and heaven, and all distresses, 
When seated by my side my hand he presses ; 

But when alone, remember all ! 
Where is Baptiste ? he hears not when I call ! 
A branch of i\y, dying on the ground, 

I need some bough to twine around ! 
In i3ity come ! be to my suffering kind ! 
True love, they say, in grief doth more abound ! 

What then — when one is blind ? 

"Who knows? perhaps I am forsaken! 
Ah ! woe is me ! then bear me to my grave ! 

O God ! what thoughts within me waken ! 
Away ! he will return ! I do but rave ! 

He will return ! I need not fear ! 

He swore it by our Saviour dear ; 

He could not come at his own will ; 

Is weary, or perhaps is ill ! 

Perhaps his heart, in this disguise. 

Prepares for me some sweet surprise ! 
But some one comes ! Though blind, my heart 

can see ! 
And that deceives me not ! 't is he ! 't is he ! " 

And the door ajar is set. 

And poor, confiding Margaret 
Rises, with outstretched arms, but sightless eyes ; 
'T is only Paul, her brother, who thus cries : — 



• The Blind Girl of Cast'l-Ciiillc 255 

" Angela the bride ha? passed ! 
I saw the wedding guests go by ; 
Tell me, my sister, why were we not asked ? 
For all are there but you and I ! " 

" Angela married ! and not send 

To tell her secret unto me ! 

O, speak ! who may the bridegrooin be ? " 

" My sister, 't is Baptiste, thy friend ! " - 

A cry the blind girl gave, but nothing said ; 

A milky whiteness spreads upon her cheeks ; 
An icy hand, as heavy as lead. 
Descending, as her brother speaks. 
Upon her heart, that has ceased to beat, 
SusjDends awhile its life and heat. 

She stands beside the boy, now sore distressed, 

A wax Madonna as a peasant dressed. 

At length, the bridal song again 
Brings her back to her sorrow and pain. 

" Hark ! the joyous airs are ringing! 
Sister, dost thou hear them singing? 
How merrily they laugh and jest ! 
Would we were bidden with the rest ! 
I would don my hose of homespun gray, 
And my doublet of linen striped and gay ; 
Perhaps they will come ; for they do not wed 



256 By the Fireside 

Till to-morrow at seven o'clock, it is said ! " 
" I know it ! " answered Margaret ; 

Whom the vision, with aspect black as jet, 
Mastered again ; and its hand of ice 

Held her heart crushed, as in a vice ! 

" Paul, be not sad ! 'T is a holiday ; 
To-morrow put on th}^ doublet gay ! 
But leave me now for a while alone." 
Away, with a hop and a jump, went Paul, 
And, as he whistled along the hall. 
Entered Jane, the crippled crone. 

" Holy Virgin ! what dreadful heat ! 

I am faint, and weary, and out of breath ! 

But thou art cold, — art chill as death ; 

My little friend ! what ails thee, sweet ? " 
" Nothing ! I heard them singing home the bride ; 

And, as I listened to the song, 

I thought my turn would come erelong. 

Thou knowest it is at Whitsuntide. 

Thy cards forsooth can never lie, 

To me such joy they prophesy. 

Thy skill shall be vaunted far and wide 

When they behold him at my side. 

And poor Baptiste, what sayest thou ? 
It must seem long to him; — methinks I see him 
now ! " 

Jane, shuddering, her hand doth press : 

" Thy love I cannot all approve \ 



The Blind Girl of Castcl-Oiill^ 257 

We must not trust too much to happiness ; — 
Go, pray to God, that thou mayst love him less ! " 

" The more I pray, the more I love ! 
It is no sin, for God is on my side ! " 
It was enough ; and Jane no more replied. 

Now to all hope her heart is barred and cold ; 

But to deceive the beldame old 

She takes a sweet, contented air ; 

Speak of foul weather or of fair, 

At every word the maiden smiles ! 

Thus the beguiler she beguiles ; 
So that, departing at the evening's close, 

She says, " She may be saved ! she nothing 
knows ! " 

Poor Jane, the cunning sorceress ! 
Now that thou wouldst, thou art no prophetess ! 
This morning, in the fulness of thy heart. 

Thou w^ast so, far beyond thine art ! 



Ill 



NOW rings the bell, nine times reverberating, 
And the white daybreak, stealing up the sky, 
Sees in two cottages two maidens waiting, 
How differently ! 

VOL. v. Q 



258 by the Fireside 

Queen of a day, by flatterers caressed, 

The one puts on her cross and crown. 
Decks with a huge bouquet her breast. 
And flaunting, fluttering up and down, 
Looks at herself, and cannot rest. 
The other, bhnd, within her Uttle room, 
Has neither crown nor flower's perfume ', 

But in their stead for something gropes apart. 
That in a drawer's recess doth He, 

And, 'neath her bodice of bright scarlet dye, 
Convulsive clasps it to her heart. 

The one, fantastic, light as air, 

'Mid kisses ringing. 

And joyous singing, 
Forgets to say her morning prayer ! 

The other, with cold drops upon her brow. 

Joins her two hands, and kneels upon the floor, 
And whispers, as her brother opes the door, 
" O God ! forgive me now ! " 

And then the orphan, young and blind. 

Conducted by her brother's hand, 

Towards the church, through paths unscanned. 

With tranquil air, her way doth wind. 
Odors of laurel, making her faint and pale. 

Round her at times exhale, 
And in the sky as yet no sunny ray, 

But brumal vapors gray. 



The Blind Girl of Castcl-Cuillc 259 

Near that castle, fair to see, 
Crowded with sculptures old, in every part, 

Marvels of nature and of art, 

And proud of its name of high degree, 

A litde chapel, almost bare 

At the base of the rock, is builded there ; 

All glorious that it lifts aloof. 

Above each jealous cottage roof, 
Its sacred summit, swept by autumn gales, 

And its blackened steeple high in air. 

Round which the osprey screams and sails. 

" Paul, lay thy noisy rattle by ! " 
Thus Margaret said. " Wnere are we? we as- 
cend ! " 

"Yes ; seest thou not our journey's end ? 
Hearest not the osprey from the belfry cry ? 
The hideous bird, that brings ill luck, we know ! 
Dost thou remember when our father said. 

The night we watched beside his bed, 

' O daughter, I am weak and low ; 
Take care of Paul ; I feel that I am dying!' 
And thou, and he, and I, all fell to crying? 
Then on the roof the osprey screamed aloud ; 
And here they brought our father in his shroud. 
There is his grave ; there stands the cross we set ; 
Why dost thou clasp me so, dear Margaret ? 

Come in ! The bride will be here soon : 
Thou tremblest ! 6 my God ! thou art going to 
swoon ! " 



2 5o By the Fireside 

She could no more, — the blind girl, weak and 

weary ! 
A voice seemed crying from that grave so dreary, 
" What wouldst thou do, my daughter ? " — and she 
started ; 

And quick recoiled, aghast, faint-hearted ; 
But Paul, impatient, urges evermore 

Her steps towards the open door ; 
And when, beneath her feet, the unhappy maid 
Crushes the laurel near the house immortal, 
And with her head, as Paul talks on again, 

Touches the crown of filigrane 

Suspended from the low-arched portal, 

No more restrained, no more afraid, 

She walks, as for a feast arrayed, 
And in the ancient chapel's sombre night 

They both are lost to sight. 

At length the bell, 
With booming sound. 
Sends forth, resounding round. 
Its hymeneal peal o'er rock and down the dell. 
It is broad day, with sunshine and with rain ; 
And yet the guests delay not long. 
For soon arrives the bridal train, 
And with it brings the village throng. 

In sooth, deceit maketh no mortal gay. 
For lo ! Baptiste on this triumphant day, 



The Blind Girl of CastH-Ciiillt: 261 

Mute as an idiot, sad as yester-morning, 
Thinks only of the beldame's words of warning. 

And Angela thinks of her cross, I wis ; 

To be a bride is all ! The pretty lisper 

Feels her heart swell to hear all round her whisper, 

" How beautiful ! how beautiful she is ! " 

But she must calm that giddy head, 

For already the Mass is said ; 

At the holy table stands the priest ; 
The wedding ring is blessed ; Baptiste receives it ; 
Ere on the finger of the bride he leaves it, 

He must pronounce one word at least ! 
'T is spoken ; and sudden at the groomsman's side 
" 'T is he ! " a well-known voice has cried. 
And while the wedding guests all hold their breath, 
Opes the confessional, and the blind girl, see ! 
" Baptiste," she said, " since thou hast wished my 

death. 
As holy water be my blood for thee ! " 
> And calmly in the air a knife suspended ! 
Doubtless her guardian angel near attended. 

For anguish did its work so well. 

That, ere the fatal stroke descended, 
Lifeless she fell ! 

At eve, instead of bridal verse, 
The De Profundis filled the air : 



262 By the Fireside 

Decked with flowers a simple hearse 
To the churchyard forth they bear ; 
Village girls in robes of snow 
Follow, weeping as they go ; 
Nowhere was a smile that day, 
No, ah no ! for each one seemed to say : — 

" The road should mourn and be veiled in gloom, 
So fair a corpse shall leave its home ! 
Should mourn and should weep, ah, well-away ! 
So fair a corpse shall pass to-day ! " 



A CHRISTMAS CAROL 



FROM THE NOEI BOURGUIGNON DE GUI BAROZAI 



I 



HEAR along our street 
Pass the minstrel throngs ; 
Hark ! they play so sweet. 
On their hautboys, Christmas songs ! 
Let us by the fire 
Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire 1 

In December ring 
Every day the chimes ; 



A Christmas Carol 263 

Loud the gieemen sing 
In the streets their merry rhymes. 

Let us by the fire 

Ever higlier 
Sing them till the night expire. 

Shepherds at the grange, 
Where the Babe was born, 
Sang, with many a change, 
Christmas carols until morn. 
Let us by the fire 
Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire I 

These good people sang 
Songs devout and sweet ; 
While the rafters rang, 
There they stood with fi-eezing feet. 
Let us by the fire 
Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire. 

Nuns in firigid cells 
At this holy tide, 
For want of something else, 
Christmas songs at times have tried. 
Let us by the fire 
Ever higher 
Sing them till the night expire ! 



264 By the Fireside i 

1 

Washerwomen old, " 
To the sound they beat, 

Sing by rivers cold, . • 

With uncovered heads and feet. ' \ 

Let us by the fire ; 

Ever higher j 

Sing them till the night expire. j 

Who by the fireside stands 
Stamps his feet and sings ; 

But he who blows his hands 5 

Not so gay a carol brings. I 

Let us by the fire '■ 

Ever higher i 

Sing them till the night expire ! " 



NOTES 



NOTES 



Page 8. All the Foresters of Flanders. 

The tide of Foresters was given to the early governors of 
Flanders, appointed by the kings of France. Lyderick du 
Bucq, in the days of Clotaire the Second, was the first of them ; 
and Beaudoin Bras-de-Fer, who stole away the fair Judith, 
daughter of Charles the Bald, from the French court, and 
married her in Bruges, was the last. After him the title of 
Forester was change to fiat of Counl. Philippe d'Alsace, 
Guy de Dampierre, and Louis de Crecy, coming later in the 
order of time, were therefore rather Counts than Foresters. 
Philippe went twice to the Holy Land as a Crusader, and died 
of the plague at St. Jean-d'Acre, shortly after the capture of 
the city by the Christians. Guy de Dampierre died in the 
prison of Compiegne. Louis de Crecy was son and successor 
of Robert de Bethune, who strangled his^ wife, Yolande de 
Bourgogne, with the bridle of his horse, for having poisoned, 
at the age of eleven years, Charles, his son by his first wife, 
Blanche d'Anjou. 

Page 9. Stately dames, like queens attended. 

When Philippe-le-Bel, king of France, visited Flanders with 
his queen, she was so astonished at the magnificence of the 
dames of Bruges, that she exclaimed : " Je croyais etre seule 
reine ici, mais il paratt que ceux de Flandre qui' se trouvent 
dans nos prisons sont tons des princes, car leurs femmes sont 
habillees comme des princesses et des reines.'' 



268 Notes 

Wlien th? burgomasters of Ghent, Bruges, and Ypre ; v/ent 
to Paris to pay homage to King John, in 135 1, they we-e re- 
ceived with great pomp and distinction ; but, being invited to 
a festi.val, they observed that their seats at table M^ere not fur- 
nished with cushions ; whereupon, to make known their dis- 
pleasure at this want of regard to their dignity, they folded 
their richly embroidered cloaks and seated themselves upon 
them. On rising from table, they left their cloaks behind 
them, and, being informed of their apparent forgetfulness, 
Simon van Eertiycke, burgomaster of Bruges, replied, " We 
Flemings are not in the habit of carrying away our cushions 
after dinner. " 

Page 9. Knights 70/10 bore the Fleece of Gold. 

Philippe de Bourgogne, surnamed Le Bon, espoused Isa- 
bella of Portugal, on the loth of January, 1430 ; and on the 
same day instituted the famous order of the Fleece of Gold. 

Page 9. I beheld the gentle Mary. 

Marie de Valois, Duchess of Burgundy, was left by the 
death of her father, Charles-le-Temeraire, at the age of twen- 
ty, the richest heiress of Europe. She came to Bruges, as 
Countess of Flande_^rs, in 1477, and in the same year was mar- 
ried by proxy to the Archduke Maximilian. According to the 
custom of the time, the Duke of Bavaria, Maximilian's substi- 
tute, slept with the princess. They were both in complete 
dress, separated by a naked sword, and attended by four 
armed guards. Marie was adored by her subjects for her 
gentleness and her man,y other virtues. 

Maximilian was son of the Emperor Frederick the Third, 
and is the same person mentioned afterwards in the poem 
of Nurembt'rg as the Kaiser Maximilian, and the hero of 
Pfinzing's poem of Teuerdaiik. Having been imprisoned by 
the revolted burghers of Bruges, they refused to release him, 



Notes 269 

till he consented to kneel in the public square, and to swear 
on the Holy Evangelists and the body of Saint Donatus, that 
he would not take vengeance upon them for their rebellion. 

Page 9. The bloody battle of the Spurs of Gold, 

This battle, the most memorable in Flemish history, was 
fought under the walls of Courtray, on the nth of July, 1302, 
between the French and the Flemings, the former commanded 
by Robert, Comte d'Artois, and the latter by Guillaume de 
Juliers, and Jean, Comte de Namur. The French army was 
completely i^outed, with a loss of twenty thousand infantry and 
seven thousand cavalry ; among whom were sixty-three princes, 
dukes, and counts, seven hundred lords-banneret, and eleven 
hundred noblemen. The Ilower of the French nobility per- 
ished on that day ; to which history has given the name of the 
Joiirnee des Eperons d' Or, from the great number of golden 
spurs found on the field of battle. Seven hundred of them 
were hung up as a trophy in the church of Notre Dame de 
Courtray ; and, as the cavaliers of that day v.ore but a single 
spur each, these vouched to God for the violent and bloody 
death of seven hundred of his creatures. 

Page 9. Saio the fight at Minne%vater. 

When the inhabitants of Bruges were digging a canal at 
Minnewater, to bring the waters of the Lys from Deynze to 
their city, they were attacked and routed by the citizens of 
Ghent, whose commerce would have been raucli injured by 
the canal. They were led by Jean Lyons, ca'itaiu of a milita- 
ry company at Ghent, called the Chaperons Blaiics. He had 
great sway over the tui'bulent populace, who, in tho.e prosper- 
ous times of the city, gained an easy livelihood by laboring two 
or three days in the week, and had the remaining r)jr or five 
to devote to public affairs. The fight at Minnewater was fol- 
lowed by open rebellion against Louis de Tvlaelc, the Count of 



2/0 Notes 

Flanders and Protector of Bruges. His superb chateau of 
Wondelghem was pillaged and burnt ; and the insurgents 
forced the gates of Bruges, and entered in triumph, with 
Lyons mounted at their head. A few days afterwards he 
died suddenly, perhaps by poison. 

Meanwhile the insurgents received a check at the village of 
Nevele ; and two hundred of them .perished in the church, 
which was burned by the Count's orders. One of the chiefs, 
Jean de Lannoy, took refuge in the belfry. From the summit 
of the tower he held forth his purse filled with gold, and 
begged for deliverance. It was in vain. His enemies cried 
to him from below to save himself as best he might ; and, 
half suffocated with smoke and flame, he threw himself from 
the tower and perished at their feet. Peace was soon after- 
wards established, and the Count retired to faithful Bruges. 

Page 9. The Golden Drajroii's nest. 

The Golden Dragon, taken from the church of St. Sophia, 
at Constantinople, in one of the Crusades, and placed on the 
belfry of Biiiges, was afterwards transported to Ghent by 
Philip van Artevelde, and still adorns the belfry of that city. 

The inscription on the alarm-bell at Ghent is, '■'■ Mynen 
iiaeni is Roland; als ik klcp is er brandy and als ik Iny is er 
victorie in het land.''' My name is Roland ; when I toll there 
is fire, and when I ring there is victory in the land. 

Page 18. That their great imperial city stretched its hand 
through every clime. 

An old popular proverb of the town runs thus : — 

*'' Number^' s Hand 
Geht durch all' Land.^'' 

Nuremberg's hand 
Goes through every land. 



Notes 271 

Page 19. Sat the poet Mdchior singing Kaiser Maximilian'' s 
praise. 

Melchior Pfinzing was one of the most celebrated German 
poets of the sixteenth century. The hero of his Tcuerdank 
was the reigning emperor, Maximihan ; and the jDoem was to 
the Germans of tlmt day what the Orlando Furioso was to the 
Itahans. Maximihan is mentioned before, in the Belfry of 
Bruges. See page 268. 

Page 19. /// the church of sainted Sehald sleeps enshrined his 
holv dust. 

The tomb of Saint Sebald, in the church which bears his 
name, is one of the richest works of art in Nuremberg. It is 
of bronze, and was cast by Peter Vischer and his sons, who 
labored upon it thirteen years. It is adorned with nearly one 
hundred figures, among which those of the Twelve Apostles 
are conspicuous for size and beauty. 

Page 19. In the church of sainted La^arence stands a pix of 
sculpture rare. 

This pix, or tabernacle for the vessels of the sacrament, is 
by the hand of Adam Kraft. It is an exquisite piece of sculp- 
ture in \^'hite stone, and rises to the height of sixty-four feet. 
It stands in the choir, whose richly painted windows cover it 
with varied colors. 

Page 21. Wisest of the Tivelve Wise Masters. 

The Twelve Wise Masters was the title of the original cor- 
poration of the Mastersingers. Hans Sachs, the cobbler of 
Nuremberg, though not one of the original Twelve, was the 
most renowned of the Mastersingers, as well as the most volu- 
minous. He flourished in the sixteenth centuiy ; and left 
behind him thirty -four folio volumes of manuscript, containing 



2/2 Notes 

two hundred and eight plays, one thousand and seven hundred 
comic tales, and between four and five thousand lyric poems. 

Page 21. As in Adam Piischman^s song. 

Adam Puschman, in his poem on the death of Hans Sachs, 
describes him as he appeared in a vision : — 

" An old man, 
Gray and white, and dove-like, 
Who had, in sooth, a great beard, 
And read in a fair, great book, 
Beautiful with golden clasps." 

Page 36. The Occultation of Orion. 

Astronomically speaking, this title is incorrect ; as I apply 
to a constellation what can properly be applied to some of its 
stars only. But my observation is made from the hill of song, 
and not from that of science ; and will, I trust, be found suffi- 
ciently accurate for the present purpose. 

Page 44. Who., unharmed., on his tusks once caiight the bolts 
of the thunder: 

"A delegation of warriors from the Delaware tribe having 
visited the governor of Virginia, during the Revolution, on mat- 
ters of business, after these had been discussed and settled in 
council, the governor asked them some questions relative to 
their country, and among others, what they knew or had heard 
of the animal whose bones were found at the vSaltlicks on the 
Ohio. Their chief speaker immediately put himself into an 
attitude of oratory, and with a pomp suited to what he con- 
ceived the elevation of his subject, informed him that it was 
a tradition handed down from their fathers, ' that in ancient 
times a herd of these tremendous animals came to the Big-bone 
licks, and began an universal destruction of the bear, deer, 
elks, buffaloes, and other animals which had been created for 
the use of the Indians : that the Great Man above, looking 



Notes 273 

down and seeing this, was so enraged, that he seized his light- 
ning, descended on the earth, seated himself on a neighboring 
mountain, on a rock of which his seat and the print of his 
feet are still to be seen, and hurled his bolts among them 
till the whole were slaughtered, except the big bull, v\ho, 
presenting his forehead to the shafts, shook theui off as they 
fell ; but missing one at length, it wounded him in the side ; 
whereon, springing I'ound, he bounded over the Ohio, over 
the Wabash, tlie Illinois, and finally over the great lakes, 
where he is living at this day.' " — Jefferson's Azotes on Vir- 
ginia^ Query VI. 

Page 55. Walter von der Vogelweid. 

Walter von der Vogelweid, or Bird-Meadow was one of 
the principal Minnesingers of the thirteenth century. He tri- 
umphed over lleinrich von Ofterdingen in that ] oetic contest 
at Wartburg Castle, known in literary histf);y as the War of 
Wartburg. 

Page 67. Like imperial Charlemagne. 

Charlemagne may be called by pre-eminence the monarch 
of farmers. According to the German tradition, in seasons of 
great abundance, his spirit crosses the Rhine on a goiden 
bridge at Bingen, and blesses the cornfields ar.d the vineyards. 
During his lifetime, he did not disdain, says Montesquieu, 
"to sell the eggs from the farm-yards of his domains, and the 
superfluous vegetables of his gardens ; while he distributed 
among his people the wealth of the Lombards and the im- 
mense treasures of the Huns." 

Page 203. Behold, at last, 

Each tall and tapeiing mast 
Is sivnng into its place. 

I wish to anticipate a criticism on this passage by stating, 
VOL. V. 12* R 



274 Notes 

that sometimes, though not usually, vessels are launched fully 
sparred and rigged. I have availed myself of the exception 
as better suited to my purposes than the general rule ; but the 
reader will see that it is neither a blunder nor a poetic license. 
On this subject a friend in Portland, Maine, writes me thus : — 
"In this State, and also, I am told, in New York, ships 
are sometimes rigged upon the stocks, in order to save time, 
or to make a show. There was a fine, large ship launched 
last summer at Ellsworth, fully sparred and rigged. Some 
years ago a ship was launched here, with her rigging, spars, 
sails, and cargo aboard. She sailed the next day and — was 
never heard of again ! I hope this will not be the fate of your 
poem! " 

Page 214. Sir Humphrey Gilbert. 

" When the wind abated and the vessels were near enough, 
t',13 Admiral was seen constantly sitting in the stern, with a 
book in his hand. On the 9th of September he was seen for 
the last time, and was heard by the people of the Hind to say, 
' We are as near heaven by sea as by land.' In the following 
night, the lights of the ship suddenly disappeared. The peo- 
ple in the other vessel kept a good lookout for him during the 
remainder of the voyage. On the 22d of September they ar- 
rived, through much tempest and peril, at Falmouth. But 
nothing more was seen or heard of the Admiral. " — Bel- 
knap's American Biography, I. 203. 

Page 245. The Blind Girl of Castcl-Cuille. 

Jasmin, the author of this beautiful poem, is to the South of 
France what Burns is to the South of Scotland, — the repre- 
sentative of the heart of the people, — one of those happy 
bards who are born with their mouths full of birds {la honco 
pleiio d'aouzeloiis). He has written his own biography in a 
poetic form, and the simple narrative of his poverty,. his. strug- 



Notes 275 

gles, and his triumphs, is very touching. He still lives at 
Agen, on the Garonne ; and long may he live there to delight 
his native land with native songs ! 

The following description of his person and way of life is 
taken from the graphic pages of "Beam and the Pyrenees," 
by Louisa Stuart Costello, whose charming pen has done so 
much to illustrate the French provinces and their literature. 

"At the entrance of the promenade, Du G.-avier, is a row 
of small houses, — some cafes, others shops, the indication of 
which is a painted cloth placed across the way, with the own- 
er's name in bright gold letters, in the manner of the arcades 
in the streets, and their announcements. One of the most 
glaring of these was, we observed, a brigiit blue flag, bordered 
with gold ; on which, in large gold letters, apjitared the name 
of 'Jasmin, Coifleiir.' We entered, and were welcomed by a 
smiling, dark-eyed woman, who informed us that her husband 
was busy at that moment dressing a customer's hair, but he 
was desirous to receive us, and begged we would walk into his 
parlor at the back of the shop. 

" She exhibited to us a laurel crown of gold, of delicate 
workmanship, sent from the city of Clemence Isaure, Tou- 
louse, to the poet ; who will probably one day take his place 
in the capitoul. Next came a golden cup, with an inscription 
in his honor, given by the citizens of Auch ; a gold watch, 
chain, and seals, sent by the king, Louis Philipi^e ; an emer- 
ald ring worn and presented by the lamented Duke of Or- 
leans ; a pear] pin, by the graceful Duchess, who, on the poet's 
visit to Paris accompanied by his son, received him in the 
words he puts into the mouth of Henri Quatre : — 

' Brabes Gaseous ! 
A moun amou per bous aou dibes creyre : 
Benes ! benes ! ey p'.aze de bous beyre : 
Aproucha bous ! ' 



276 Notes 

A fine service of linen, the offering of the town of Pau, after 
its citizens had given fetes in his honor, and loaded him with 
caresses and praises ; and knickknacks and jewels of all descrip- 
tions offered to him by lady-ambassadresses, and great lords ; 
English ' misses ' and ' miladis ' ; and French, and foreigners 
of all nations who did or did not understand Gascon. 

"All this, though startling, was not convincing; Jasmin, 
the barber, might only be a fashion, a furore, a caprice, after 
all ; and it was evident that he knew how to get up a sce::e 
welL When we had become nearly tired of looking over 
these tributes to his genius, the door opened, and the poet 
himself appeared. His manner was free and unembarrassed, 
well-bred, and lively ; he received our compliments naturally, 
and like one adfcustomed to homage ; said he was ill, and un- 
fortunately too hoarse to read anything to us, or should have 
been delighted to do so. He spoke with a broad Gascon ac- 
cent, and very rapidly and eloquently ; ran over the story of 
his successes ; told us that his grandfather had been a beggar, 
and all his family very poor ; that he was now as rich as he 
wished to be ; his son placed in a good position at Nantes ; 
then showed us his son's picture, and spoke of his disposition ; 
to which his brisk little wife added, that, though no fool, he 
had not his father's genius, to which truth Jasmin assented as 
a matter of course. 1 told him of having seen mention made 
of him in an English review ; which he said had been sent 
him by Lord Durham, who had paid him a visit ; and 1 then 
spoke of ' Me cal moun ' as known to me. This was enough 
to make him forget his hoarseness and every other evil : it 
would never do for me to imagine that that little song was his 
best composition ; it was merely his first ; he must try to read 
to me a little of 'L'Abuglo,' — a few verses of ' Fran9ou- 
neto. ' ' You will be charmed,' said he ; 'but if I were well, 
and you would give me the pleasure of your company for some 
time, if you were not merely running through Agen, I would 



Notes 277 

kill you with weeping, — I would make you die with distress 
for my poor Margarido, — my pretty Fran9ouneto ! ' 

"He caught up two copies of his book, from a pile lying 
on the table, and making us sit close to him, he pointed out 
the French translation on one side, which he told us to follow 
while he read in Gascon. He began in a rich, soft voice, and 
as he advanced, the surprise of Hamlet on hearing the player- 
king recite the disasters of Hecuba was but a type of ours, to 
find ourselves carried away by the spell of his enthusiasm. 
His eyes swam in tears ; he became pale and red ; he trem- 
bled ; he recovered himself; his face was now joyous, now 
exulting, gay, jocose ; in fact, he was twenty actors in one ; 
he rang the changes from Rachel to Bouffe ; and he finished 
by delighting us, besides beguiling us of our tears, and over- 
whelming us with astonishment. 

" He would have been a treasure on the stage ; for he is 
still, though his first youth is past, remarkably good-looking 
and striking ; with black, sparkling eyes, of intense expres- 
sion ; a fine, ruddy complexion ; a countenance of wondrous 
mobility ; a good figure ; and action full of fire and grace ; he 
has handsome hands, which he uses with infinite effect ; and, 
on the whole, he is the best actor of the kind I ever saw. I 
could now quite understand what a troubadour or jonglciir 
might be, and I look upon Jasmin as a revived specimen of 
that extinct race. Such as he is might have been Gaucelm 
Faidit, of Avignon, the friend of Coeur de Lion, who lament- 
ed the death of the hero in such moving strains ; such might 
have been Bernard de Ventadour, who sang the praises of 
Queen Elinore's beauty ; such Geoffrey Rudel, of Blaye, on 
his own Garonne ; such the wild Vidal : certain it is, that 
none of these troubadours of old could more move, by their 
singing or reciting, than Jasmin, in whom all their long-smoth- 
ered fire and traditional magic seems reillumined. 

'* We found we had stayed hours instead of minutes with 



278 Notes 

the poet ; but he would not hear of any apology, — only re- 
gretted that his voice was so out of tune, in consequence of a 
violent cold, under which he was really laboring, and hoped 
to see us again. He told us our countrywomen of Pau had 
laden him with kindness and attention, and spoke with such 
enthusiasm of the beauty of certain 'misses,' tlmt I feared his 
little wife would feel somewhat piqued ; but, on the contrary, 
she stood by, smiling and happy, and enjoying the stories of 
his triumphs. I remarked that he had restored the poetry of 
the troubadours ; asked him if he knew their songs ; and said 
he was worthy to stand at their head. ' 1 am, indeed, a trou- 
badour,' said he, with energy ; ' but I am far beyond them all ; 
they were but beginners ; they never composed a poem like 
my Fran90uneto ! there are no poets in France now, — there 
cannot be ; the language does not admit of it ; where is the 
fire, the spirit, the expression, the tenderness, the force of the 
Gascon ? French is but the ladder to reach to the first floor of 
Gascon, — how can you get up to a height except by a lad- 
der ! ' 

"I returned by Agen, after an absence in the Pyrenees of 
some months, and renewed my acquaintance with Jasmin and 
his dark-eyed wife. I did not expect that I should be recog- 
nized ; but the moment I entered the little shop I was hailed 
as an old friend. ' Ah ! ' cried Jasmin, ' enfin la voila 
encore ! ' I could not but be flattered by this recollection, 
but soon found it was less on my own account that I was thus 
welcomed, than because a circumstance had occurred to the 
poet which he thought I could perhaps explain. He produced 
several French newspapers, in which he pointed out to me an 
article headed ' Jasmin a Londres ' ; being a translation of cer- 
tain notices of himself, which had appeared in a leading Eng- 
lish literary journal. He had, he said, been informed of the 
honor done him by numerous friends, and assured me his fame 



Notes 279 

had been much spread by this means ; and he was so dehght- 
ed on the occasion, that he had resolved to learn English, in 
order that he might judge of the translations from his works, 
which, he had been told, were well done. I enjoyed his sur- 
prise, while I informed him that I knew who was the reviewer 
and translator ; and explained the reason for the verses giving 
pleasure in an English dress to be the superior simplicity of 
the English language over Modern French, for which he has a 
great contempt, as unfitted for lyrical composition. He in- 
quired of me respecting Burns, to whom he had been likened ; 
and begged me to tell him something of Moore. The delight 
of himself and his wife was amusing, at having discovered a 
secret which had puzzled them so long. 

" He had a thousand things to tell me ; in particular, that 
he had only the day before received a letter from the Duchess 
of Orleans, informing him that she had ordered a medal of her 
late husband to be struck, the first of which would be sent to 
him : she also announced to him the agreeable news of the 
king having granted him a pension of a thousand francs. He 
smiled and wept by turns, as he told us all this j and declared, 
much as he was elated at the possession of a sum which made 
him a rich man for life, the kindness of the Duchess gratified 
him even more. 

" He then made us sit down while he read us two new po- 
ems ; both charming, and full of grace and naivete ; and one 
very affecting, being an address to the king, alluding to the 
death of his son. As he read, his wife stood by, and fearing 
we did not quite comprehend his language, she made a remark 
to that effect : to which he answered impatiently, ' Nonsense, 
— don't you see they are in tears.' This was unanswerable ; 
and we were allowed to hear the poem to the end ; and I cer- 
tainly never listened to anything more feelingly and energeti- 
cally delivered. 

" We had much conversation, for he was anxious to detain 



28o Notes 

us, and, in the course of it, he told me he had been by some 
accused of vanity. 'O,' he rejoined, what would you have ! 
I am a child of nature, and cannot conceal my feelings ; the 
only difference between me and a man of refinement is, that 
he knows how to conceal his vanity and exultation at success, 
which I let everybody see.'" — BSarn and the Pyrejiees^ I. 
369, et seq. 

Page 262. A Christmas Carol. 

The following description^Df Christmas in Burgundy is from 
M. Fertiault's Coup d'' CEil sur les Noels en Bourgogne, prefixed 
to the Paris edition of Les Noels Bourgnignons de Bernard de 
la Monnoye [Gui Bardzai), 1842. * 

" Every year at the approach of Advent, people refresh their 
memories, clear their throats, and begin preluding, in the long 
evenings by the fireside, those carols whose invariable and eter- 
nal theme is the coming of the Messiah. They take from old 
closets pamphlets, little collections begrimed with dust and 
smoke, to which the press, and sometimes the pen, has con- 
signed these songs ; and as soon as the first Sunday of Advent 
sounds, they gossip, they gad about, they sit together by the 
fireside, sometimes at one house, sometimes at another, taking 
turns in paying for the chestnuts and white wine, but sing- 
ing with one common voice the grotesque praises of the Little 
Jesiis. There are very few villages even, which, during all the 
evenings of Advent, do not hear some of these curious canticles 
shouted in their streets, to the nasal drone of bagpipes. In this 
case the minstrel comes as a reinforcement to the singers at 
the fireside ; he brings and adds his dose of joy (spontane- 
ous or mercenary, it matters little which) to the joy which 
breathes around the hearth-stone ; and when the voices vibrate 
and resound, one voice more is always welcome. There, it is 
not the purity of the notes which makes the concert, but the 
quantity, — non qnalitas, sed quantitas ; then, (to finish at once 



Notes 281 

with the minstrel,) when the Saviour has at length been born 
in the manger, and the beautiful Christmas Eye is passed, the 
rustic piper makes his round among the houses, where every 
otie compliments and thanks him, and, moreover, gives him 
in small coin the price of the shrill notes with which he has 
enlivened the evening entertainments. 

" More or less until Christmas Eve, all goes on in this way 
among our devout singers, M'ith the difference of some gallons 
of vAdne or some hundreds of chestnuts. But this famous eve 
once come, the scale is pitched upon a higher key ; the closing 
evening must be a memorable one. The toilet is begun at 
nightfall ; then comes the hour of supper, admonishing divers 
appetites ; and groups, as numerous as possible, are formed 
^o take together this comfortable evening repast. The supper 
finished, a circle gathers around the hearth, which is arranged 
and set in order this evening after a particular fashion, and 
which at a later hour of the night is to become the object of 
special interest to the children. On the burning brands an 
enormous log has been placed. This log assuredly does not 
change its nature, but it changes its name during this evening : 
it is called the Siiche (the Yule-log). 'Look you,' say they 
to the children, ' if you are good this evening, Noel ' (for with 
children one must always personify) ' will rain down sugar- 
plums in the night.' And the children sit demurely, keeping 
as quiet as their turbulent little natures will permit. The 
groups of older persons, not always as orderly as the children, 
seize this good opportunity to surrender themselves with meny 
hearts and boisterous voices to the chanted worship of the mi- 
raculous Noel. For this final solemnity, they have kept the 
most powerful, the most enthusiastic, the most electrifying 
carols. Noel ! Noel ! Noel ! This magic word resounds on 
all sides ; it seasons every sauce, it is sei'ved up with every 
course. Of the thousands of canticles which are heard on this 
famous eve, ninety -nine in a hundred begin and end with this 



282 Notes 

word ; which is, one may say, their Alpha and Omega, their 
crown and footstool. This last evening, the merry-making is 
prolonged. Instead of retiring at ten or eleven o'clock, as is 
generally done on all the preceding evenings, they wait for the 
stroke of midnight : this word sufficiently proclaims to what 
ceremony they are going to repair. For ten minutes or a 
quarter of an hour, the bells have been calling the faithful with 
a triple-bob-major ; and each one, furnished with a little taper 
streaked with various colors, (the Christmas Candle,) goes 
through the crowded streets, where the lanterns are dancing 
like Will-o' -the- Wisps, at the impatient svunmons of the mul- 
titudinous chimes. It is the Midnight Mass. Once inside the 
church, they hear with more or less piety the Mass, emblemat- 
ic of the coming of the Messiah. Then in tumult and great 
haste they return homeward, always in numerous groups ; they 
salute the Yule-log ; they pay homage to the hearth ; they sit 
down at table ; and, amid songs which reverberate louder 
than ever, make this meal of after- Christmas, so long looked 
for, so cherished, so joyous, so noisy, and which it has been 
thought fit to call, we hardly know why, Rossi'gnon. The 
supper eaten at nightfall is no impediment, as you may im- 
agine, to the appetite's returning ; above all, if the going to and 
from church has made the devout eaters feel some little shafts 
of the sharp and biting north-wind. Rossignon then goes on 
merrily, — sometimes far into the morning hours ; but, never- 
theless, gradually throats grow hoarse, stomachs are filled, the 
Yule-log burns out, and at last the hour arrives when each one, 
as best he may, regains his domicile and his bed, and puts 
with himself between the sheets the material for a good sore- 
throat, or a good indigestion, for the morrow. Previous to 
this, care has been taken to place in the slippers, or wooden 
shoes of the children, the sugar-plums, which shall be for 
them, on their waking, the welcome fruits of the Christmas 
log." 



Notes 283 

In the Glossary, the Suche, or Yule-log, is thus defined : — 
"This is a huge log, which is placed on the fire on Christ- 
mas Eve, and which in Burgundy is called, on this account, 
lai Suche de Noei. Then the father of the family, particularly 
among the middle classes, sings solemnly Christmas carols 
with his wife and children, the smallest of whom he sends into 
the corner to pray that the Yule-log may bear him some sugar- 
plums. Meanwhile, little parcels of them are placed under 
each end of the log, and the children come and pick them up, 
believing, in good faith, that the great log has borne them. " 



Cambridge : Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co. 



